To Thine Own Self
by sakurasencha
Summary: "Believe it or not I will stay true to you." – Post episode 2.07 AU. Branson does not believe her.
1. Chapter 1: Hindsight

_Credit where credit is due: the premise for this fic came from ARCurren, so you can blame her for the angst fest. Beta by the flawless Mrstater of Mary/Richard stanning infamy. Shippy-feelings and other feedback provided by the sassy afraidnotscared. And I think Julian Fellowes might have had a part in it all, but don't quote me on that._

* * *

_The sky looks like rain when he sees the reflection of her face in the brass headlight he is polishing. Before her image becomes enlarged enough to signal that she is standing right behind him, he sees her head sneak a furtive peek over her right shoulder, his heart enlivened with the idea that she has stolen away to see him._

"_Branson," she begins as he turns to greet her with a courteous nod, planting himself at a respectful distance. "Could you take me into Thirsk on Thursday evening?"_

"_That shouldn't be a problem, milady. I'll just need to clear it with his Lordship."_

"_Quite right," she replies, then looks down with that cautionary, pregnant pause which he knows means her mind is brewing. Her head lifts up, the meaning in her eyes not the least bit elusive as she says, "Actually, he's already given me permission to go out that night."_

_He cannot account for the seemingly narrowed distance that has sprung up between them, but he takes a step forward to accommodate the trend. "But..." he says, the smile only in his voice._

_Her smile is on her lips, while her voice is warm and unashamed, conspiratorial. "But he thinks I'm going to Ripon for a meeting for one of my charities."_

_The Guns of August have been booming for little over a year, yet so remote are they from quaint North Yorkshire that most days they can hardly hear even an echo. Aside from the occasional Bad News or an upsettingly frank article, time continues to pass in that hazy sameness that fools one into thinking no time is passing at all._

_The air is like lukewarm steam while he internally peruses all of the indiscrete events occurring in Thirsk that week. "I won't take you to the ELFS peace rally," he informs her bluntly, though his elation at the prospect of being her (this time) witting accomplice is such that he decides with enough persuasion he may just amend that position._

"_It's not for that." Her smile turns impish at his disbelieving look. "Not entirely!" she laughs. "Of course I want to at least see it, but I'll have you know my real purpose in going is much more innocent."_

"_So much more innocent that you have to lie to your father about it?"_

_Her grin is cheeky – "When you hear why I want to go you'll say yes" – and irresistible as well, because these days he'd probably say yes without even asking why. But he obliges:_

"_Why?"_

_She reaches into the folds of her dress and presents him with a letter. He reads it impassively, eyes widening slightly as he reaches the end, and then looks back up to her face glittering with shared excitement. "Gwen's getting married?"_

_The clouds thunder lightly as she beams. "She's asked me to come and I told her I would, but I don't think that kind of a wedding is something my parents would allow me to attend."_

That kind, _she says_. My kind, _he thinks, and any kindling of altruism is extinguished._

"_I don't think we should be conspiring together to fool your father," he says with a backward step, handing her the letter. She accepts it gingerly, confused at the sudden cold turn. "Just tell him the truth. You said yourself that it's innocent enough."_

_She frowns. "They won't let me go. You know they won't." She eyes turn beseeching. "Please, Branson. I _promised_ her."_

"_Then you shouldn't make promises you can't keep," he snaps the rebuke, and winces at the way she leans back and the accusatory note in her eyes. _Not you too_, they say before she turns around and walks briskly away._

"_Wait. I didn't mean –" he calls, but she is still retreating. "Where are you going?" He runs after her. "Lady Sybil!"_

_He quickly catches up to her, and she forces him to walk silently beside for several minutes before she relents to stop. "'I'm going to find Lynch," she says finally. She crosses her arms. "I'll take the governess cart if I have to!"_

"_The governess cart? All the way to Thirsk?" He shakes his head, laughing. "You'd have to start Wednesday morning just to make it in time."_

"_Then so be it. But I _will _get there, one way or another." She continues her march to the stables, calling over her shoulder to him as the first drops of rain begin to fall:_

"_I always keep my promises."_

**Hindsight**

_**February, 1919**_

_They came. They saw. They conquered_.

Only Branson is left standing, dumbfounded in defeat, stock still in the center of the small and emptied room, the image of Lady Mary's red coat trailing through the door a final victory blow set on infinite loop in his mind. A part of him stubbornly refuses to believe, while the rest feels it may very well take the remainder of his lifetime simply to process the events which had just unfolded as he stood helplessly by, and if time had any compassion it would have ceased to pass the moment she'd imparted her Judas' kiss of a farewell to allow him the leisure.

But the earth has not stop spinning and the minutes tick by just as evenly as they always have before he watched his future disintegrate. He hears it even now, the measured pace of the timepiece on the mantle, a steady rhythm to his own frenetic and pounding heart. A few minutes pass and the beating calms; his consuming shock and disbelief begin to dissipate, and is at last dispelled altogether a few more minutes later, after he unconsciously registers Lady Edith revving up the engine, by his first coherent thought:

_I need to leave._

This is bolstered by the second, which is really an addendum to the first:

_I need to leave _her_._

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, and for the first time in years there is clarity. The rosy lenses are unhinged and his vision is no longer distorted. He sees everything with crystalline hindsight, the way she has ravaged his life, the dreams and purpose and time – _so much time!_ – that she has usurped, that he had sacrificed again and again and again only to be left standing, cluttered garage exchanged for dingy inn room, just exactly as he'd started: lonely, still, and waiting – always waiting – waiting for her to come to him.

But she will never come. Or, more accurately, she will never _stay_. And if it were down to him he would be at the docks with a one-way ticket in hand by first light, bags packed, never to be heard from again. This throbbing conviction spreads through his limbs and sends them flying, to the corner of the room, where he had stowed his small case, back to the bed, where he lays it open, and finally here and there about the small room as he begins tossing in the few paltry items he has brought with him. He closes the case and heads for the door. A straight shot from North Yorkshire to Liverpool, that is the plan. A failsafe one, he decides, foolproof against the drowning waters of her eyes, the ensnaring mouth which drips of verisimilitude. He knows a single sight of her would be enough to waylay his resolve, and he heads out the door, Downton Abbey and all its inhabitants consigned to the dust in his feet, before he stops dead, a groan escaping as the fly in the ointment surfaces.

_But –_

But there is still the matter of the car.

It must be returned. He is to return it in the morning.

He sighs then, but does not stop walking to the staircase, although he does momentarily pause on the landing, considering briefly, really only a second or two, of getting his money's worth out of the room and leaving come dawn. He paid cash in advance when they first arrived, a detail he did not care to extrapolate to Lady Mary in the wake of his humiliation. But ultimately he decides against the idea. The scant hours he spent in the hard-backed chair getting choked to death by his tie and nerves offered no rest but plenty of happiness. But now, a comfortable night alone in a bed made for two seems a petty recompense for the destruction of his hopes, and instead he forgoes the satisfaction of rest, leaves the inn to the bemused expression of its keeper, and starts up the engine bare minutes after the getaway car sped his Lady back to her tower.

The car ride back teems with unsung poetry. There are verses on love. On loss and heartache. And above all of these is betrayal, reverberating throughout the small cab, thickening the resentment till he can eat it with a spoon.

_Believe it or not, I will stay true to you._

Her emollient words did not have the desired effect. The blow was not softened. His faith was not renewed. It is late enough (or early enough) that the roads are empty, and stark trees waiting for a breath of warm Spring remain the only hindrances in an otherwise vast and unmarked night. And with the confluence of the unvarying terrain and pervading darkness his vision begins to change focus, shifting from the mottled gray of the road to a ghostly reel of images, one scene blending into the next – of Sybil, cascading down the stairs in turquoise trousers; breathless as an unexpected yet welcome hand takes hers; timidly visiting him in the garage, then later more boldly. Of Sybil, plucking a berry off of her first experiment in the kitchen; downcast and wordless in the face of an expected yet unwelcome proposal; a touch to her side, then a visit in the night that seals the matter on her decision and their mutual intentions, or so he had thought.

The reel continues.

Now they are not married. Now they are returned to Downton. Now she still visits him boldly, then later more timidly, and even later hardly at all. Now their engagement is relegated to the hypothetical, then later to the improbable, and even later to nothing as her sisters set to work and the suitors begin to pile up, until one day he awakens to find that he is once again only the chauffeur and she the Lady, with another year gone by.

_Believe it or not–_

His grip on the steering wheel tightens.

_Or not._

For while he does not think her so weak that five seconds will be enough to undo her heart, five days, five weeks, five _months_, perhaps, under the pernicious tutelage of Mary's silver tongue might well see the deed done. And with her faithfulness thus besieged by the dark night and his darker mood, all of her beguiling minutiae – the curve of her cheek against his, the throaty laugh whispering in his ear, the veil of her undone hair sifting between his fingers – all of these which might have allayed his festering sense of betrayal begins to fade, and in his mind's eye there is only a single thought left in focus:

He will return the car in the night, and he will be gone before morning.

* * *

Silence devours the inside the cab, the tension mounting with a kind of dread for what the morning will bring. And they are all swimming in it, all four of them as they sit with their eyes to themselves and their mouths shut, the quietest of them Sybil, face dabbed with a pair of drying streaks that run from eye to chin.

But this reminder of her tears and former compliance belies the picture of defiance that she paints with her squared shoulders, her mouth set in a hard line that is fortified below by an upturned chin. They all believe her. She knows that's what frightens Mary into submission, excising any of her usual blistering remarks, and what presses Edith's sole into the gas pedal till the car careens.

But their ready faith in her word does not count for much. They are not the ones that need convincing. The surety of the absent party might have been concerning to some, but the way the endurance that lives in his eyes had clouded over at the moment of her departure does not trouble Sybil, for to her self-contained mind there is no need to worry. The matter of her abandonment is easily, almost clinically resolvable: A word of comfort, a kiss of affection, and they shall continue on, and upheld by a string of promises made to her – words like _every waking moment, I'll stay, forever_ – she is able to live securely in her delusions.

Edith shuts off the lights as they enter the park, and there are still no words.

They tramp back through dry grass and cold air, and no one dares utter a syllable.

When they leave her at the door of her room she finally speaks:

"We will still marry," she says to their worn and unamused faces.

Mary's parting mouth looks to be winding up but Sybil raises a hand to stop her, "I wish to be alone" her sole valediction before she shuts the door in their faces, slips down to her undergarments, and sits composedly on the bed. She lays easily down, palms and fingers splayed across her ribcage as she exhales deeply and slowly. She is exhausted. But her mind will not be at rest, and behind her closed eyes flips image after image, like the turning of a book, its quick pace occasionally pausing to alight upon a specific page, a specific memory:

A sure hand passing back pamphlets – the first time she remembers him.

A forbidden feel of skin against her lace glove – the first time she had touched him.

Two nights ago – the first time she had kissed him.

She draws up each image as from a nourishing well, but it is the final page on which she lingers, remembering how her world had spun on a thread of silk before she had willing let it plummet into the darkness of the unknown. It had been her undoing, that moment of relinquish, for she had loved him before then, yes – of that she was certain. But it had been a love of theory, not yet practice, and once put into physical motion the momentum could not be stopped, only propelled ever onward by those laws of physics that she had never been allowed to learn but which ruled her world and body nonetheless.

And though she does not mean it to, her sleepiness begins to claim her as her liquid thoughts slip over and through one another, fluid and ever changing, yet always of him, with a single, solid thought skimming along the surface, a buoy to which all others find their locus:

_Believe it or not I will be true to you._

_I will._

She will marry Tom Branson, or she will marry no one at all.

* * *

Having returned and safely deposited Sybil to her bedchamber, Mary and Edith feel security enough to shrug off their fatigue, concede to their younger sister's request to be left alone to her torment, and convene in Mary's bedroom. Spiked energy thrummed through the pair the whole length of the midnight retrieval, but now the peeping dawn begins to dry up the last of their reserves, and it is in voices subdued with weariness that they discuss their next plan of attack.

A separation severe and immediate is at once agreed upon. Edith questions its feasibility, knowing well the determination of both parties involved. Mary is more sanguine about their chances of success, trusting in the sobering light of day to see cooler heads prevail.

"After all," she reasons, "it took all of two minutes for me to convince Sybil to return with us. Just think what I could do with two hours – or two days, for that matter."

"But she did promise to be true to him, whatever that means. And you _know_ how Sybil is," Edith contests, tilting her head and flipping out her hand as if to show how Sybil is.

"Stubborn. Yes, I know." Mary sighs tiredly. "Which is why it might well be easier to work on Branson." She rises from her place on the bed to stand near the drawn window, one finger shifting the curtain to the side to allow for a slice of pre-dawn grey to slip into the darkened room. "It will all come down to tomorrow morning – or rather, this morning," she amends, squinting against the early light. "If we can keep her away and convince Branson to leave on his own accord, then it won't matter how many promises she gives."

Mary withdraws her hand. The curtain falls back in place and she turns towards Edith, her face in shadows.

"He'll be gone. And Sybil will be safe."

Edith nods. Divide and conquer is to be their tactic, and she dispatches herself rather early after quitting Mary's bedroom, permitting herself only the luxury of a quick change of coat and stockings, a few coarse brushstrokes through her hair, before she embarks on her quest. Half an hour later she is a shock of tangled strawberry hair bobbing in time with her steps which speed her out to the garage to await Branson's return.

But her haste had been in vain. At the last bend, when the garage at last swings into view, she finds the car already there, and he still in it, the engine humming with warmth and the suggestion that he is barely arrived. She changes trajectory to afford a more surreptitious view, and once closer sees him debark and stumble himself onto a bench, his face sinking into his hands and his body eerily still.

Her throat constricts. The uncomfortable work must be done sooner rather than later, so she forces a mouthful of air, utilizing all her learned caution in her approach, that of a newborn's mother entering the nursery, as if fearful of waking him from his stupor with her presence. She is pensive; her own thoughts on the matter are halfway between apology and indignation. _How dare he –_ flares chiefly and hotly upon first introspection. He cannot expect to burn the world down, fashioning poor Sybil into his accomplice, without any attempts to thwart him. But she can undeceive her sense of propriety enough to admit that despite her misgivings, her former indiscretions have made her more pliable to the idea, this notion that a God-given love should transcend the arbitrary bounds established by mere mortals. And although she can sympathize with their cause, can hardly criticize, she has not yet mustered up enough goodwill to approve.

How strange it is, she feels as she draws closer, the many hours she spent in his company, learning how to drive as she learned about him, and all the while never once having a clue. She thought she knew him then, understood the individuality of the man underneath the ubiquitous livery, his passions, his pursuits, having been audience enough times to glean them. But as he stares wordlessly at her advancing form she is struck with the complete foreignness of the man sitting there, a challenge nesting in his eyes. Slightly rumpled, he has neither the good grace to look ashamed or stand for his betters, his face hard but still expressive, though the message on display unreadable.

"Lady Edith," is all he offers by way of greeting, and she wonders if she should modify her scruples enough to accept that this face might one day be named her brother.

"Good morning, Branson." She looks abashedly down to the ground, then back up again, reminding herself that she is not the one who committed treason last night. "I won't bother beating about the bush. I remember how to the point you are, and I'm sure you've already guessed why I'm here." She pauses for any sort of acknowledgement. When none is forthcoming, she continues. "You see, Mary and I have discussed the situation. We'd like to avoid any scandal, of course, and to spare Sybil as much as possible. We'll not tell Papa – nor anyone, for that matter – as long as you agree to leave at once and never contact Sybil again."

He blinks once. "There's no need to worry, m'lady. I don't plan on being here any longer than it'll take to pack up a few of my things."

"Oh." His easy acquiesce throws her slightly aback. "Very well, then." And has left her a little nonplussed. "And your notice?"

"I'll leave a letter for Mr. Carson. And you won't have to worry about what it'll say; I'll make it sound very legitimate."

"I see." Her fingers wring about one another. "Although I suppose leaving without proper notice won't recommend you to any future employers."

"Neither will eloping with my current employer's daughter."

He nods then, a segue for her comfortable and quick removal. Branson will leave. Sybil will stay. It was just as she desired, what Mary and she had hoped for. But like the armistice of Autumn the victory seems only half won, a sweet success made sour by the high casualty rate.

"Branson," she spurts out, though she will never pinpoint why. "I know you're keen to be off, but I…I do think it might be best if you waited at least a little while before you run off forever. At least until you've seen Sybil."

His eyes narrow. "You told me to leave at once."

"Not for long. Just to say goodbye, I mean."

"If I see her again I never will say goodbye."

His reply ends with an audible period, and this time Edith does not mismanage his cue, promptly taking her leave of him and his demons.

* * *

When Sybil awakens, primal beams of light creeping in through the undrawn window to jab open her eyes, she does so suddenly and with a cold stab, like a splintered knife dipped into the based of her spine, a terrifying suspicion superseded by those two words which always heralds only the worst anxiety:

_What if _–

The traitorous thought is expelled with her grogginess, before it has a chance to take root and immobilize her. But regardless of that she is still disoriented by anxiety: She fell asleep. She did not mean to fall asleep. She meant to bide her time, to sneak away, to meet him and greet him, to shower him with affection and as many more promises as would be required, and she fairly jumps out of her sheets, for this is not a time for _dwelling_, but a time for action, as only Sybil Crawley knows how, and on goes the skirt and the blouse and the stockings, up goes the hair in a bevy of pins, and pushing towards the door she swings it purposefully open – to find Mary on the other side, a blockade of crossed arms and disapproval.

Sybil looks as if she had been dressed by a hurricane. "And just where do you think you're going?" Mary asks.

"I think you know exactly where. Please stand aside, Mary."

"Get back inside of your room, Sybil."

Instead of outrage there is a low-pitched deadliness in her voice. "I will see him whether you want it or not."

Mary sighs. "Need I remind you that Papa's room is only three doors down, and that I have the power to send Branson away, now and forever? That I've always had it, and never used it?"

"Two minutes," Sybil hisses, and Mary steps inside, quietly shuts the door, and rounds on her.

"You promised me you wouldn't do anything stupid, _Sybil_."

"And you told me that you were on my side, _Mary_."

"I should like to think stopping you from throwing your life away and saving you from utter ruin would count as being on your side."

"I'm not throwing my life away!"

"I don't understand, your suddenly running off with him like this. You told me you didn't even like him!"

"I told you I wasn't sure!"

"And I suppose now you are?" Mary asks, the incredulity dripping off the angles in her face.

"Yes," Sybil answers. "Yes, I am sure." She folds her arms over her chest. "I've never been more sure of anything in my entire life."

"This isn't a game, Sybil. If you marry Branson it will be the end of everything you know. And life on the other side won't be this rustic glamor you think it. It will be work, hard work, and without the benefit of much money – a life that you are entirely unaware of and may one day come to resent."

"I know what it is to work – and I welcome it." A swell of sunlight breaches the casement, momentarily distracting her with the portent of dwindling morning. Sybil looks to it, shafts alighting on the far wall and falling across the softening edges in her face, the belligerence there ebbing to entreaty as her eyes return to Mary. "I didn't come to this decision lightly," she says softly. "I've thought about it for months – for years! Don't think for a moment that I haven't considered every other option." Her head shakes as she says, " I'm not made for this life, Mary."

"Aren't you?" One eyebrow lifts. "Sybil, if you want to keep working, if you want a new life, then appeal to Papa. Ask him to let you stay on at the hospital, to send you to university. Expand your horizons here. You don't need to run off to Dublin because you're tired of needle work and dressing up for dinner."

Sybil's eyes yield and land on the floor.

"It's more than that, Mary. You know it is."

"So you're in love with him?" Mary nearly scoffs.

She shrugs. "Something like that."

"'Something like that?' Forgive me if I'm not ready to shower you in blessings for '_Something like that_'!"

The fuse is back, and shorter than ever: Sybil's collar is on fire, as are her eyes. "What do you want from me?" she snaps, one elbow jutting out from her hip, the other gesticulating in a way that is disturbingly reminiscent of the driver. "To declare it from the rooftops? To write out my love in in the sky? What I will say is this," she says on an exhale, a concession to becalm herself. "I feel that if I gave him up, I would regret it for the rest of my life. I don't want that to be my fate, and despite whatever you may think or say, I know you don't want that for me either. Now," she says, the pleading eyes back in place, "are you going to tell Papa?"

Mary's face crumbles. "Oh, darling. What do you think?"

* * *

When Sybil left Mary, doubtless face marching unrepentant towards the half-risen sun, she invoked to the elder's eye the embodiment of inexhaustible confidence.

When Mary comes to fetch her, four hours later, Sybil still maintains the facade of dignity; but the rest of her is flagging. Famished, thirsty, and overtired in way that her long hours of nursing never amounted to, every physical privation is laughed at in the face of the torture being done to her heart.

The morning is over, along with her chances. She is the cat whose last life has been forfeited to her complacency, too much in the habit has she been in taunting fate, in taunting him with her vacillating commitment. But like all creatures who have fallen over the precipice she remains in denial of the ground below. Mary can see this clearly as she draws near, and clutches her coat more tightly about her shoulders, a brace for what is to come, every step going out of its way to be conspicuous.

"Sybil, darling," she says soothingly when she has reached the figure seated at the stoop of the cottage. "It's nearly luncheon. Please, come back to the house with me."

Her insistence is non-negotiable, but as gentle as she is capable of. She knows there is only one way this stand off will end, and she is prepared to risk the sharp edges, to be the hands that collect the fragmented remains and piece them back together.

Sybil is on high alert, and has not looked at her sister even once, her eyes somewhere beyond the horizon. "No, I –" They focus forward, darting till they land on Mary – "I need to wait here for him. I want to be here when he returns" – and then flee back into the distance.

Mary murmurs:

"Darling...he's already returned."

"Then when he comes back," she replies with urgency. There is silence next, a woefully meaningful look. She requires assurances and the lack of these angers her. "He _will _come back for me," she argues, turning up her face, "and when he does he'll see me waiting – and then he'll know."

"Sybil. He's not coming back. He's left Downton for good."

Her short, barking laugh contains no humor and is bordering on desperate. "You're lying," she says, bolting up. "You'll say anything to get me to leave!" Her arms fly into the air to accentuate the point.

"You know I don't lie." A pause, a single glance to the side, and then softly, almost apologetically: "He's left a letter for Carson." _Urgent family matters have drawn me back to Ireland_. "Along with his notice, effective immediately."

Her lips tightly pressed, Sybil breathes heavily through her nose, then scrambles to the window and presses her face to the glass till her nose is touching. "His things are all inside!" Another humorless laugh. "He wouldn't leave without them!"

"He came here and packed a few things. Edith got it all from him when he arrived – she met him here and they spoke." She waits for the information to do its work, to draw her deflating sister back down the porch and to her side, and then continues: "He stopped by the post on his way to the station, to hire someone to collect the rest of his belongings and send them on after him." She shrugs. "It was all in the letter."

Sybil's run out of refutations, all the logical ones at least, and her mind begins to leap. An accident. Illness, perhaps. An infinite parade of sheep, bleating and bumping as they block the road, and him stranded at the impasse thinking only of her. But among all of the unlikely options there is only one that truly remains impossible to her:

That he's left her.

"But it's...no..." She shakes her head and glances back behind her, the sight of the now unoccupied cottage transfixing her, rooting her. "It's not possible," she whispers. "He wouldn't leave me."

"Darling..." Mary speaks softly, lest she be the final ill wind that knocks over the pillar of salt. "You're the one who's left him."

The truth drops violently, knocking the world away. Sybil is motionless as she drifts: though sightless, wide eyed and staring. Mute, yet open mouthed, lungs compressed of all air as if being hit with a sack of bricks. And for the first time that morning there is clarity. The events of the previous night replay across her transcending eyes, only now perceived through the perfecting lens of hindsight: the one-sided nature of her decisive departure, the appearance of infidelity in the aftermath of so little constancy, and the ineffable wretchedness of his parting gaze which plainly screamed that he did not believe her.

"No," Sybil cries. "But I haven't! I haven't!" And while Mary is in no need of a lesson on Sybil's integrity, she gets one regardless. "I'm still going to marry him, I – it'll just be a little while longer, that's all. And not very long, just until he gets a job and we have everything settled. And then we'll tell mama and papa, just like you said – _in broad daylight_." Her voice chokes. "Isn't that what you told me, Mary?" she yells, the charge in her voice evident and laid bare at her sister's feet, though in her heart Sybil knows there is no merit. The sister is faultless and a willing succor as Sybil collapses to a heap in her arms. "I don't understand...he promised me..."

"Oh, darling." Mary smooths down the wisps being taken up by the mild wind. "I'm so sorry Sybil."

"..and I told him...why didn't he believe me?"

"Because he doesn't know you as well as he ought," Mary replies, words etched with a bitterness she does not attempt to hide, "for someone who wanted to make himself your husband." The next she says gingerly: "Perhaps this is for the best."

"No." Sybil pushes away, walks a few paces off. Her eyes land somewhere, on an indistinct focal view of the Abbey, and she looks to be staring at something, at nothing. She sniffs as the racking subsides. "It's gone, isn't?"

Mary follows after. "What?"

"He would speak of it, sometimes, even before I agreed. The rows of small, modern flats that fill out the west part of the city. One bedroom, a small kitchen – 'low maintenance' he would say, and I'd tell him that he'd be responsible for all of it. How it always rained, but that after awhile you get used to it, you learned to appreciate the way it cleaned out the sky. He told me of the hospitals and clinics, the ones that he could remember. And the cinema they just built nearby, the lanes in Phoenix Park that we would walk together, the pubs and the parties – the things to do on a Sunday afternoon. And his cousin – he told me about a cousin of his who went to Trinity on scholarship. I used to imagine –" Her face suddenly screws, and her hands move up to shield her eyes. "It can't just be _gone_!"

"Sybil..."

"He's not gone!"

Mary envelops her, wraps her hands tightly and closely against her shivering back. "There's nothing here for you anymore. Please, come back up to the house with me."

And with every fiber rarified, every source depleted, every spring run dry, Sybil at last wearily complies, carried away in the crook of Mary's arm.

Halfway there Sybil remarks, "He asked me to marry him two years ago and has been wasting away in that damn garage ever since. What were a few more months to him?"

Mary truly seems to consider this, and perhaps, Sybil thinks, it is the through the bitter prism of experience through which she speaks her next words: "Sometimes a person can only suffer so much, no matter how great the love."

"And did I make him suffer? With my equivocating, with my caprice?" Her stride falters but does not stop, the sobs replenishing. "I told him yes, and then I left him at the first test of my faith. So tell me, Mary, have I ruined everything?"

It hits so close to the mark that Mary visibly winces, though Sybil is in no condition to notice anything that extends beyond her own misfortune.

"Of course not!" Mary cries. The personal parallels have made her generous, and she adds: "And it wasn't him, either," and pauses a moment to swallow down the gravel in her throat. "It's simply the way of things, circumstances that eclipse us. Something which neither you or he has control over, and which we are all subject to, in the end."

Sybil sniffs, and wipes her face with her sleeve. "Fate, you mean?"

Mary pauses. "Something like that."

And so Sybil, in cold comfort, is led back to the house. After entering she takes the steps by two until she reaches the top of the stairs, as fleeting as an apparition until she closes her bedroom door behind her. Mary orders Anna to bring up a tray and it arrives thirty minutes after Sybil had dropped onto the mattress. Anna leaves it without commentary upon the side table, for Lady Sybil had already fallen asleep amidst her tears, the precise volume of her anguish remaining forever a mystery to the housemaid, who never hears her mistress mention the name _Tom Branson_ ever again; while Branson, one hundred some odd miles to the southwest, standing along the crowded shore of Liverpool side by side with his brother, waits on a pier for the next ferry departure.

The seagulls invaded at the first aroma of food, ravenous squawks clawing at his ears until they want to bleed. The batch of cold fish and chips that he is eating is tasteless and granular in his mouth, as if battered in sand, while the smell of salt and the sight of boundless mineral blue feels evermore like misery than the freedom he had envisioned.

Kieran is leaning casually, enjoying his fare, and sounds unperturbed as ever as he says, "You might have told me earlier you were coming, Tommy."

"I didn't know myself until recently. You'll forgive me."

Kieran shrugs with one shoulder. "No need. It's no hassle closing the garage for an afternoon. But if I'd known I would've booked you a passage this morning so you wouldn't have to wait."

His elbows support him as he stoops over the railing, blinking dimly out over the ocean. "I don't mind waiting," he says.

The conversation thins. Branson gulps down the last bite of soggy cod he can stomach before tossing the rest over the rail to land in the sea that has so captured his listless gaze. Its meager splash goes unheard amidst the riot of the docks and the attacking gulls, any formation of ripples lost to the choppy waves. The sun at high noon has evaporated much of his wrath, and he is longing for her again, unsure whether this is a sign that the ticket stuffed in his coat pocket is one of freedom or imprisonment. At Downton he felt anchored, guided by that blinding lodestar, by that numinous love and primal lust which were both wrapped up so bountifully in her; but now his moods are contrary, restive, his purpose changing by the hour. Every step he takes away from her amplifies his uncertainty and the feeling he is walking head first into a mistake.

"I had to leave," he says with a sudden burst of panic. "I had wanted to go back to Dublin for a good while now, and I can't stay in England. Not anymore."

The whole explanation is vague, practically begging to be teased apart. But his brother simply nods and chews, for unlike Mary Crawley, Kieran Branson is a stranger to familial duty, one who keeps himself to himself, and expects others to do the same. Incurious to a fault, he is, and rather proudly so, one who neither presses for details or even very much cares for them.

But the details harass Branson's mind, clamoring for release. A ferry ride to determine the rest of his life, and with the money already spent and nothing but a dubious subconscious to tell him otherwise, he says farewell to his nonchalant brother, walks across the gangplank, settles into the first available bench, and pulls out paper and pen, seemingly his only true friends in a world that has grown increasingly undependable.

And so it is that he has irrevocably evacuated Downton and is Dublin bound when he begins the first of his letters to her. They canonize how every second of his life at Downton was lived for only a glimpse, and then once the glimpses became commonplace a conversation, and then once the conversations became daily a gesture, or a smile, or any indication that his abiding affection was even remotely reciprocated. And how over time there had been smiles, and gestures. The secret visits in the night, the shared laughter and common purpose that to his mind meant surety, even when the creases on her brow spoke only of confusion. And how all those years were a kind of frustrated bliss, an indefinite stall in paradise. How worthy she was of every second, not a single day wasted, and how he would do them all over again if only he could believe, believe that she will stay true to him.

And the days pass.

And Cora or Robert sometimes comment on Sybil's changed demeanor. They cite the languor in her stride, the loss of zeal which used to punctuate her sentences. It does not worry them overmuch, and in Robert's case he almost smiles with a smug relief when he mentions it to his other, evasive looking daughters, who murmur about the war and then change the topic altogether. And Sybil, still freshly wounded, takes solace in the memories as she meanders the corridors, lurched along by the occasional, bursting hope that surfaces when the front bell rings, and which grows duller and more infrequent with every lonely day.

And Branson makes it safely to Ireland, to Dublin, his home city where his mother welcomes him profusely and confusedly. She feeds him and watches him, unpacks his trunk once it arrives, and never asks why. She is content never to know, as long she has him here and mostly intact, and bears with his uncharacteristic sullenness the only way she knows how, with an overdose of chatter and food. And his brothers and sisters come to parade their many and heretofore unseen children before him like prized tomatoes at the fair, each one alike in their chubbiness and precociousness, and in the painful reminder of the family that was so tantalizingly close to reach.

And the weeks pass.

And Branson applies here and there, undeterred by the fact that he is unreferenced and nearly forgotten in his old circles. On the day an acceptance letter finally arrives in the post he is shocked to see the letterhead of a local paper who only received his resume as a lark. They bestow on their newest junior reporter a healthy enough income to finance not only himself, but any burgeoning family he may happen conceive, and in this even fate seems to be laughing at him. And so he writes during the day, and when the day is over he writes during the night, infusing every page with his great love for her that will always be denied, even in acceptance had been denied. He signs them and dates them but never rereads them, and they collect in a thickening pile at the bottom of the case he had carried with him back to Dublin.

And Sybil begins to grow used to the idea that her future will not be in Ireland, and will not be with him. That it will not be brightened by bustle or his self possessed smile. Having been forbidden to go back into nursing, she pursues other avenues of occupation to distract the residing ache in her heart. Her old charities welcome her back with gusto. Extended visits to Aunt Rosamund are accomplished even when an invitation is absent. They help alleviate the worst, and the rest she overcomes as she does any enemy, with persistence and strength of mind.

And the months pass.

And Sybil begins to find a new rhythm to her life, one that does not include secrecy and deceit. It does not include much excitement, either, but she has matured enough to understand that fulfillment can be found in many ways, even the boring ones. There will be no new life but there will be lives that she can help. There will be no love but there will be good works. There will be no family of her own, but she has the love of parents and sisters, the admiration of friends, and though she has become accustomed to the permanency of regret, she is content.

And Branson, everyday, thinks he might just seal and deliver his latest masterpiece. After all, he knows her address and these days can well afford the price of a stamp. But a spate of resentment always bridles his hand just as he is sealing the envelope, or the plan is terrorized away on the way to the post office, by the fear of what he may find in her reply – or rather _who _he may find, not his Lady Sybil Crawley, but someone else entirely, a Lady Merton or a Viscountess Tantyl, the endless list of men who ever cast her so much as an approving smile rotating through his mind, each night haunting him as he falls remorsefully to sleep.

And the years pass.

* * *

_Thanks for reading :D More to come next week._


	2. Chapter 2: Providence

_More of the same: the surpreme MrsTater provided the beta and afraidnotscared provided invaluable opinions. Last chapter was more of a prologue and this is where the real story begins. Oh, and there are some glancing historical references in this one so I'll leave a few authors notes at the end for the curious, although if you truly are curios I would just recommend reading the wikipedia entries, which is basically what I did._

* * *

_It is common knowledge that her father, just as many fathers before him, can be relied upon to miss almost any kind of subterfuge. But she has miscalculated her latest scheme, forgetting that the library is his domain, a place where he reigns with an eagle's eye as its overseer, even as he is a slave to its maintenance and order, and so it is only after the second occurrence that he catches it and accosts her after breakfast, his tone bearing that concern which, in reference to her, has become a disquietingly frequent visitor._

"_Sybil," he begins. "I was looking over the ledgers and saw that you've just borrowed _The Conditions of the Working Class_?" More of an accusation than a question, but she nods anyway, then holds her breath at his long, stifling pause. "It's just that I've noticed...that's twice now that you've taken a book right after Branson's returned it." His voice sharpens, the benign interview shifting towards the interrogatory. "He's not giving you recommendations, is he?"_

"_No." Sybil shakes her head, constructs an affectation of nonchalance. "There are so many books I sometimes can't decide – often I see what others have read, and if the titles interest me then take them." She beams. "That must be it!"_

_The waters of distrust recede from his eyes, and she thinks her explanation must have sufficed. But as she takes her leave, watching him as he watches her, she is unnerved to find for the first time on his face a glint of disdain surfacing, a bewilderment that the lovely creature that was once his third daughter could be willfully shaping her mind towards rebellion._

_The intermittent showers have kept them all indoors, but after luncheon they are graced by a dry spell, and she assuages her boredom with a walk, taking the opportunity to disclose the morning's detrimental event to her accomplice. She finds him and the garage in a state of disrepair, his arms deep into the underbelly of the car, fixing some part which he immediately explains to her and which she promptly forgets. The engine block is made up of a torsion of metal pipes and wires, a jumble of gears and gaskets completely foreign to her. But rather than rev up her curiosity as so many unknown territories often do, it only succeeds in repulsing her._

_But not its keeper._

_She leans over and peers into the bonnet. The voice emanating from underneath sounds sincere when he says, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get you in trouble."_

"_It's not your fault. And they're only books – hardly something I should get into trouble over."_

_She can just make out his smile under the tangle of parts. "People have been getting into trouble over books since words were invented." And after a gruesome crank which makes her shudder, he swings himself out from beneath the car and stands up, mopping off his hands with a nearby rag. "I only meant that I shouldn't have suggested you read them."_

"_Why not?" she says, shrugging. "I wanted to read them, and discuss them." Her smile is coy, conspiring. "I still do."_

_Indeed, sharing literature has gone a long way towards mending bridges. Not that they have been quarrelling, per se. But when their philosophies were thrown into the pressurized atmosphere of the war, every miniscule divergence, most often in the form dichotomous patriotism, became exaggerated, bloated to the point of even bursting into argument, on the rare occasion. And aside from that, he is loathe to lose the link, the talking point that brings her round so religiously to see him, and so quickly concocts a new plan:_

"_Then how about this – I'll let you read them right after I've done, and return them when you've finished." He tosses the rag onto a bench and smiles. "You'll have to read quickly. He knows I usually have them back in a few days."_

_They're agreed, and he busies himself with another tool, another problem that needs to be fixed. But she is in a loitering mood, and instead of leaving starts arranging a box of stray bolts. _

"_I've never read so much since you came to Downton," she says, "and even before it was mostly just novels. There's a whole section in that library that I never dreamed I'd be reading." She looks up to see him watching her, and smiles. "And now I am."_

"_That's just a part of growing up."_

"_What? Becoming a better scholar?"_

"_Doing things you never thought you'd do."_

"_Like borrowing books from the chauffeur?"_

"_Like spending all your free time in the garage." His comment and the accompanying piercing look toe very close to the realm they've silently agreed is no-man's land. But it's an unalterable fact that she is here, and by her own choosing, more often than what is proper. _

_She goes for the redirect._

"_And what about you?" Her eyes move down to the tiny piles she has organized, fingering each bolt individually as if counting treasure. "What are the things you've done which you never thought you'd do?"_

"_I never thought I'd leave Dublin, until I did. And then I never thought I'd leave Ireland. I almost didn't apply for the post at Downton. My family didn't want me to leave, and they can be a persuasive bunch."_

_She looks back up to him. "But you did."_

"_I did. And now I'm here." The unspoken _with you_ wafts with the heady scent of petrol between them. "We're nothing but our choices, isn't that what they say?"_

"_Well, I don't know who you're talking about, but I don't think they're entirely right. There's always that element of chance. You made the choice to apply here, but Papa didn't have to hire you."_

"_So it's all fate, then." He smiles. "Is that what you believe?"_

_Nothing about her moves except the focus of her gaze, now glassy and directionless, as she considers. "I believe in God," she says finally, her attention once again fixed on him. "And I suppose that's very near the same thing."_

**Providence**

Tom Branson wakes up on the morning of April 1925 to this headline:

_**Administration of Estates Act passed**_

He takes a sip of his steaming coffee. _So it's happened._

Quickly perusing the rest of the article, and then the rest of the paper, he finishes off the pot, alternating his gulps between swift bites of unbuttered toast, the conglomeration feeling a bit like stale mud in his mouth. Yet despite his usually unsatisfactory breakfast, he has the makings of a wry smile on his face when he puts down the paper and goes back to his bedroom to ready for the day. The great divide has been breached. Now those so prejudiced by gender and birth order can at last lawfully inherit the great riches of the kingdom. A true victory for that oppressed few percent of the population!

But in a fitting revenge, his ungenerous sarcasms soon take an unfortunate turn, for once his disheveled, morning face greets him from the mirror, up from the depths springs unbidden an enthusiastic voice. It easily takes him to task, speaking compellingly of the evils of primogeniture, how inequality and oppression are to be found and destroyed on all levels of society, each of the varying contentions of the issue corded up with the unspoken context of Mary and Matthew – _Is she still in love with him?_

And so it is with only two short leaps that his inaugurating thoughts of the day are conquered by Sybil, Lady Sybil, Lady Sybil Crawley – m'lady – that woman whose essence still maintains power over a majority of his waking thoughts, and the sum total of his dreams. For it does not matter if he breaks faith and chooses tea in the morning, for Sybil prefers two sugars to his one, or if he foregoes the pleasure of caffeine altogether, because Sybil once read him a passage out of one of her thick medical books about the addictive powers of the substance. If it is spring and he detours along the King's lane to work, lined with the flowering lilac beds, he will be done in by the first intake of the scent of her perfume. And if he takes the more direct route along the quay in November, a surely safer path for the number of distractions it affords, his gaze cannot help but to stray to the greying waters in winter, the same shifting color as her eyes.

He shaves, dresses, and packs up his few things into an abused brown leather satchel which he tucks under his arm, sweat already beading against his overgrown hair, trickling off his scruffy neck and dampening his collar from the warm front that glided in off the sea, and by the time he reaches work that morning she has already encumbered half a dozen of his idle moments. It is only when he sets his case on the desk, slings his jacket over his chair, freshens up his black-stained mug with a morning's supply of coffee, and actually sits down to begin his day that he actively works to banish her from his mind. He has found over the years that it is futile to do so any earlier; nothing but the strictest concentration holds any water in a battle against her memory.

The sound of her laughter in that last summer of innocence dwindles as he glances at the pile of messages scribbled onto the scraps of paper that await him. Their secretary is an ancient being. A sweet lady, she also possesses two inch thick spectacles, and owns a tremorous set of fingers that never fail in producing ineligible script. He picks up the top message and squints at the lines, and with his head cockeyed at just the right angle he can somewhat make out what appears to be one of his sources requesting him for a ring back.

"Read the news, yet?" a chipper voice calls from behind him.

Branson turns his head over his shoulder to see Jack Ferguson leaning against a filing cabinet, the morning edition in his hand waving overhead in a beckoning manner. He sets the message down and picks up his mug before ambling over, reaching him by the second gulp. "Over breakfast."

Jack unfolds the paper and they both look over the headline again.

"This is historic," Branson says, tapping the headline in emphasis. "Hundreds of years of precedence undone today. And all those antiquated laws that we've learned to put with." He shakes his head with a low exhale of awe. "I can't imagine how things will change after this."

"Change for some." Jack shrugs a shoulder in conjunction with his lifting eyebrow. "But I don't think _I'll_ be inheriting from Lord what's-it anytime soon."

Although she's hundreds of miles away, and despite his morning thoughts espousing the same line of reasoning, her transcendent influence has taken its toll, and he can't bring himself to quite disappoint her.

"Maybe not, but equality in inheritance is one of the first steps in acknowledging the equality of all."

"So the wealthy are all equal in their state of wealth, and the poor the same?" Jack smiles as he shakes his head. "Face it, Tom, this law does nothing to change the true ills of society. It barely scratches the surface!"

"Barely is still better than nothing," he tosses back to Jack's laugh, shaking off the image of an approving set of eyes which won't ever exist this side of the Atlantic.

They end up parting ways as the tempo in the office picks up, decamping to their individual work spaces until lunch, at which time they meet together again, chatting about the possibilities as they head outside for a smoke.

Jack offer the remains of his match as he says, "There's talk going around this morning. Heard they want someone to cover it on the ground – send someone to England for the rest of the month, doing interviews, getting a summary of events, the typical drill."

He had said it suggestively enough that Branson almost sees the finger pointing. "They're not going to choose me," he says bluntly.

"And why not? You've got experience with..." Jack weaves his hand, tracing the air with a thin stream of smoke. "That sort of thing."

Ah, yes. Branson's employment record. He laughs. "You mean those sort of people?" It's something of a private shame around the office. This particular paper is among the most extreme of the anti-establishment in Dublin, and make their employment decisions as such. But after reading a few of his samples they had been willing to take a flying leap of a chance, to forgive that he once driven cars for the enemy. He laughs again at that thought, wondering what they would think if they knew he had once wanted to marry one.

_That I had once almost married one._

She lingers long after the humor has subsided, and the idea of returning to the land which broke him suddenly becomes unsettling.

He taps out some ash.

"Where do you think they would send this potential candidate?" he asks casually, fingers trembling in his free hand as he stuffs them into his pocket.

Jack shrugs. "Oh, London, I'd say."

His fears abate but do not vanish completely at the word London – he will be safe in London – but are ultimately proven warrantless, for while they do end up sending someone to cover the story, they do not end up picking him, wanting someone with a bit more weight to his name to be the first responder to this landmark decision.

With no other eddies to disrupt him, Branson continues to live out the steady flow of his existence. He keeps a grueling pace, working most weekends and many nights, which goes hand in hand with his demoralizing social calendar: drinks on Friday with the boys, and drinks every other night by himself to round out his set of standing amusements. In the interim there are always the books and articles to be checked off his interminable reading list, and his mother has made it a habit to drag him to a family dinner at least once a month. But the roaring passions that his Lady once ignited in his heart seem now as dying embers in comparison, and what little heat remains has been transferred – a kind of rekindling, perhaps – to his native love for Ireland. To that end, his assignments are one of his last true joys – often local, but occasionally far flung across a country still embittered by the freedom foisted upon it, denied even the dignity of building up their new nation on their own terms. A country divided, hostile unto itself, even now after all these years of simmering peace, still ripped at the seams as he tries to reach across the gaps, hoping with every word he writes and thought he thinks that he is somehow helping to mend them.

And so the story comes and goes, the headline printed in his newspaper with someone else's name on the byline. It is not until over a year later, June of 1926, when the law is now half a year in effect and the ramifications beginning to make themselves known, that the spokes in his life at last begin to turn him in another direction.

Branson, for the third time, gives a puzzled look to the poorly scrawled message before knocking twice. He listens for the gruff command to enter, then turns the knob upon its receipt.

"You wanted to see me?" his disembodied head asks through the crack in Charlie Ford's door.

Charlie waves him in with a hasty grunt, as if too aloof or busy for the mundanity of words, and then directs him to the chair facing the executive desk. It's midday, and he's doing twelve things at once, one hand clacking at the keys, the other just setting down the receiver on the telephone. There is a handkerchief tucked under his chin, catching the errant bits of mustard dribbling from the Reuben he has just picked up. After taking another bite Charlie fishes into an unseen drawer while Branson sits expectantly on the edge of the hard wood chair, a small, persistent thud of nervousness pounding from his heart to his temples. It is not often he is called in for a personal audience with his exacting boss, and his breath shortens, wondering what misstep might have occurred on his part to provoke the meeting. But his worries are interrupted by a besetting curiosity when a brown folder emerges from behind the heavy wooden desk, which is then plopped like a bag of spoils in front of him. "We've got an opportunity for you, if you're interested," Charlie finally speaks.

"An opportunity?" Branson almost stutters.

Charlie nods to the folder. "Take a look."

Branson opens the file, flips through the topmost pages. Inside is a copied portion of the Property Act; an itinerary for travel to London. A brief profile on a landed Baron. None of it makes any sense, until Charlie explains, wiping his mouth as he goes.

"We want to do a feature, a sprawling op ed on the effects of the Property Laws." Charlie's flurry of activity begins to wind down, his slower pace granting leave to focus on his guest, and he catches Branson's look of mild surprise. "The law's now in effect, and things are starting to change. Of course it's all well and good to see a heap of statistics, but we want a catalogue of the real fall out, to get a personal perspective on the matter." Branson still looks doubtful. "Centerspread, two full pages," Charlie adds, then grins. "It could be your breakthrough."

Branson laughs. "That's what you said about the Four Courts standoff."

Charlie's returning laugh comes out as more of a snort. "Well lad, we've all got to earn our stripes somewhere, and some more painfully than others." He nods towards the file. "Keep going."

Branson does, and is soon unclipping a small portrait of a smiling, well attired man from the profile, scolding himself that a trip to the optometrist is well overdue as he squints at the name scribbled beneath. "Christopher Galding?"

"The second son to Lord Sheffield." Charlie balls up his sandwich wrapper and throws it in the general direction of the waste bin, where it spectacularly misses. "The elder Galding – the first son, I mean – is also a first rate reprobate – drunkard who's already squandered quite a bit of money at the races. Gambler, womanizer –" His hand makes small circles. "You know the type. Well, the father's had enough, passing him over for this one," he says, leaning over to tap the picture. "Now, Christopher – a regular prize thoroughbred. Made a name for himself at Oxford, known for his liberal leanings – up to his ears in charity work. And savvy. With all these landed toffs selling out, Sheffield Manor is turning over a profit. He's any father's dream heir."

Branson had been scanning down the profile, his eyes noting the impressive service record. "And a veteran," he says.

"Of course he is!" Charlie barks. "All of that lot is. A generation of war heroes, to the last of 'em."

"I suppose so," Branson replies with a small bit of tang, "in the war that mattered." He won't say it outright, but Branson is bothered. It seems the sort of assignment he'd have been handed down from one of the more popular circulations, not the niche, fringe market paper they are known for. His eyes narrow as if hoping to perceive the trick. "What's the catch, Charlie?"

"What catch? Why not highlight the freedoms England is handing out to its people? First inheritance, and universal suffrage is right around the corner. These are good things worthy of recognition in a free press." He spreads out his open palms. "How could there possibly be a catch?"

"Our stance towards England has never been complimentary. And there's nothing of controversy in a piece like this."

"We don't always have to be controversial."

Now Branson _will_ outright say it: "We are _always_ controversial. That's what most people hate about us, and what everyone else loves about us." He places the photo back into the file, then closes it. "I don't like it."

Charlie's figure leans forward into his steepled fingers. While at rest, without the diversions of constant movement, the larger than life persona is nullified, minimizing him, leaving only the wearied old man that he truly is.

"We both know the old divisions are starting to wear down," he says in a low tone. "People are still angry – they'll always be angry. But tempers have cooled. De Valera's got his party in line. They'll follow his lead. And if Fianna Fail puts aside the old battles, accepts the treaty, takes the oath, it could be an end to all of it."

Charlie's speech has tapered off. But he's stopped short, Branson can tell. His mouth is itching, there is more that needs to be said; and there is a coaxing in his silence.

"Go on?" Branson obliges.

Charlie's eyes quirk. "It's all a matter of persuading the majority."

"You mean our readers?"

"Our readers, the readers at _Saoirse_." He shoves himself back into his chair. "It's time to bury those injuries. And we can be a part of that – moving past England, past the war."

"So we're backing off, then?" he asks derisively. "Turning the tide of public opinion, one soft, treacly story at a time?"

"Let's just say we're changing trajectories - not much, just a degree or two. And this piece could be a start, a way to acknowledge that things are heading in the right direction – for England, for Ireland – and then, too, for everyone." He sighs. "We've all been burnt, Tom, and the scars aren't going to disappear overnight. But I'm tired, we're all tired. I don't care for this side or that side, I care for Ireland, and its freedom. To one day have a real Republic. And it's going to happen - not how we wanted, originally. But it will come. And it's time to lay the demons to rest."

And for all that Charlie Ford seems a careless taskmaster, he'd known just what buttons to press, what ideologies to caress and coddle in order to appeal to Branson's sensibilities, and before Branson can even begin to comprehend all the ancillary consequences of this decision his heart is already swelling in time with the "yes" on his lips. And leaving the office is a reinvigorated spring to his stride, a small flame of his old optimism, for if two opposing sides who had once so brutally and mutually wounded could lay aside their weapons, who knows what else this world could see fit to come to pass.

* * *

Branson is given a strict per diem for the assignment. They are not a wealthy paper, in particularly dry quarters barely breaking even, and so keep a tight leash on the funds. Accordingly, they bestow on him only money enough for two round trips on the ferry and train, one week's worth of lodgings and food, along with a bit of extra for incidentals – cab rides, supplies, and the like. He packs lightly and prudently, keeping the inclement weather forecasted into account, along with the discomfiting prescience that Mr. Galding may ask him to attend an event or two that would require his best suit.

Come Monday morning every sock is in place, the suitcase checked over three times when he snaps it shut and loads it into the waiting cab outside of his flat. It is the first time he has traveled farther than a day or packed more than a simple overnight bag since the failure that transcends all others, and after stepping reluctantly onto the creaking ferry deck, while brooding on the waters over, he is awash with an unwelcome deja vu. How heavy his heart was on the voyage over, and yet seven years later not a single ounce of it has lifted. Even after all this time he carries the burden of her with him wherever he goes, and if he never acknowledged the staying power of a broken heart before, he does so now in a reverential whisper – _what if?_ – lobbed into the carrying sea breeze, for the mere thought of inhabiting the same country as her, treading the same earth and breathing the same wind, seems to intensify every longing and regret ten fold.

The ferry docks with a lurch, fairly propelling him off the gangway as he debarks. He drifts through the commonplace chaos of the docks, his first order of business hailing a cab, and in five minutes he is seated in the backseat with his eyes closed, fingers pressed against the bridge between his eyes in a fruitless effort at quieting the echoes of the past, the driver's mouth mercifully sealed as he takes them into the city.

The bookings were prearranged by the office secretary. A happy situation for one so mired in his own personal distress, for rather than concentrate on his immediate maintenance, he is given leave to watch ponderingly out the window at the streets passing by. Before long Branson is gazing at the columns of square, stocky windows which adorn the many cheap hotels in the East End when the car begins to slow, pulling up to the curb in front of a nondescript grey building. Branson pays the fare, and has barely shut the car door before it peels away. He walks inside and registers at the front desk, is handed a key, then ascends the staircase to the darkly lit hallway. The room is small, the wide bed and blackout drapery enticing those with illicit intentions, the other sparse furnishings, a practical desk included, for everyone else. Overall the atmosphere is relentlessly busy – the air of the fully booked – alive with talk and banging, a loo on every floor at the end of the hall. He noticed on the way in a telephone in the lobby, and after dropping his luggage off he goes directly back downstairs and hands the receptionist a slip of paper with Mr. Galding's London number.

One short phone call and twenty minutes later Branson finds himself seated in an upper end club, all sumptuous drapery and leather upholstery, feeling like the lone lump of coal among a panoply of polished stones. The air is warm; smoky and dim. A light jazz combo plays at just the right volume so as not to be overwhelming, cooling off the ambiance as he partakes of a late supper of steamed fish and beer.

The real work will start tomorrow. Tonight, they had mutually agreed, is nothing more than a friendly chat, and for the most part the two men enjoy an amicable silence as Branson eats. But after the last bite and a final swig Branson asks, "Just out of curiosity – why did you agree to do this article?"

Christopher gives a wry smile, and lights up his cigar, and he suddenly appears as that portrait Branson held so many weeks ago formed into flesh – under the thin smile that same trimmed and combed mustache; that same dark, carefully parted hair. Handsome in his middle age; mid-forties, or perhaps older. And impeccably dressed. A dandy, Branson suspects, though it's obvious he tries to hide the high level of consideration given to his attire with an overall attitude of carelessness. But his demeanor is unguarded and sincere – unmistakably friendly, and more inviting than he might first appear once he starts talking with that palatable, unthreatening voice.

"I was approached, as you know," Christopher begins, "by Mr. Ford. We met once at a fundraiser for the Macintosh campaign that he was covering for his paper – this was before the war, of course." He stops to let go of a puff of acrid smoke as Branson lights his own cigarette. "After the Property Acts passed it took little time for my father to come to a decision, and even less time for word to get out. In January Mr. Ford contacted me about the possibility of doing the feature, letting the world glimpse first hand the effects of the laws. I'm to be the guinea pig, I suppose, and you the recorder of this first experiment."

"And you agreed, just like that?"

"I don't mind the exposure. My type of life isn't accustomed to much of privacy. And Mr. Ford spoke as if I'd be given the opportunity to express my personal philosophies."

"And that was the real draw?"

"To an extent." A waiter materializes with a bottle of brandy and two cut crystal classes. Each are poured a sufficient amount, and once the waiter leaves Christopher takes a slow sip with an undue amount of concentration, as if coalescing the fragments in his mind into some kind of coherent pool of thought. "You see, Father is handing over the reins to me, and I want to do things differently than he's done, than what's been done in generations past. I've been born into an enviable position, and I feel that with my birthright comes a certain amount of responsibility – a duty I would hope to impress upon my peers as likewise their own."

The concept of noblesse oblige and all the concomitant condescension is not something Branson is unfamiliar with. For him it's a time bomb of a topic, but he barely knows the man and so makes a sizeable effort to keep his features neutral.

"I understand," he says, with a shrug that he is positive conveys nothing. "I used to be in service."

And yet Christopher puts down the cigar, in one hand, the brandy in the other, and looks as if he has surmised his private thoughts.

"I know what you're thinking. But it's more than that," he continues, his light-hearted tone agitating towards fervency, a bursting gleam in his eyes. "More than stuffing the missionary's box with old clothes and making good on the pensions. I speak of true charity. The kind which calls for sacrifice, the kind which seeks no favors in return. And I don't see my generosity as an obligation. Quite the contrary – it's a privilege, I think. I've been privileged to be able to give more than I receive." He climbs down from his high, laughing with a slight shrug as he retrieves his cigar and drink. "At least that's the way I choose to see it."

Branson accedes with a nod. His cigarette is almost spent and he stubs it into the ashtray. He has yet to touch his drink. "And what exactly are you giving to right now?"

"At the moment all my energies are focused on the Foundling Hospital," he replies with a renewed, buzzing energy. "After an endless period of council we've arrived at the decision to move it to the country, finally getting it away from all _this_." The hand bearing the cigar makes a motion of disgust out towards the windows and the bustling streets beyond, as if in condemnation of the morass, the general populace living their lives unbeknownst to his judgment. "Crime, pollution; the sickness and decay." Branson nearly comments that they are currently seated in one of the most expensive and exclusive places in the country, but is stopped when Christopher leans over to sagely impart, "London is no place for children."

Branson's mouth nearly quirks. "And why is that?" he asks seriously.

"I would never raise children in the city. They need clean air and safety, not the disease which infests the very air." He shakes his head gravely. "They deserve better."

Branson knows the type, and the look which plainly tells him that Christopher has no clue what he talking about. While he may have some knowledge of a trench or the one-off orphanage, he has probably never once set foot in a slum or ghetto. But he does mean well, which is more than could be said for most others walking this self absorbed planet – himself included – and surely that must count for something. But all the same his heuristic impulses won't let it slide.

"And so who decides what's better?"

Christopher's eyes widen, as if unsure whether he is being tested or challenged. Instead of an answer he sets the remains of his finished cigar on the ashtray, asking, "You like to ask questions?" long fingers lifting his crystal glass to his lips.

Branson's fingers have begun drumming on the table. "I do. But mostly I like to hear answers. That's why I'm a reporter."

Christopher gives a faint noise of acknowledgment over his rim. "And had you always wanted to go into journalism?"

"Not really. As I said I used to be in service...but a friend of mine encouraged me. It was a million to one, but I sent in a resume anyway. I got my first job at the _Dublin Times,_ and then things sort of fell into place." Branson clears his throat and looks keenly across at his host. "But this interview's not about me."

"Don't mind me," Christopher laughs. "I thought we were just having a friendly chat!"

"Sorry. The reporter inside of me has forgotten how to take holidays."

"Well in that case..." Christopher says, and sets down his glass.

They dive into the gritty details. Christopher's mind spasms from one topic to the next. And he's vociferous, with plenty to say about all of them; yet not in a pedantic way, the kind of arrogated smarm that sets Branson's teeth on edge. He is humble without being self-effacing, and his altruism, just as he has claimed, is more ingrained than Branson had at first given credit. He has plans for the estate, plans for expansion and modernization that will secure his family for generations to come, barring any cataclysmic downfalls. As well, trusts are being erected for certain charity works that he holds particularly dear, as if to protect the money from the shortcomings of future generations.

"I've named myself as a lifetime trustee, and the other trustees shall be hand picked by me, personally, who will then pick their successors," Christopher explains.

Branson is jotting down, quick dashes in a language decipherable only to himself, and says without looking up from his notepad, "So after you die that money will be severed from your family completely?"

"In theory. Of course the stipulation is that a family member will always have a place on the board of each of the charities, and so will have at least partial say over how the money is spent."

"Seems wise," Branson concedes, notably impressed.

"I'm glad you think so. It's exactly what my father said, though he put up a small skirmish at chopping up the capital. But he has little choice in the matter. It's either Jack or me at the till, and he's disposed towards seeing the money thrown at orphans than whores, if you'll pardon."

Branson doesn't quite pardon, but knows his place well enough not to say so. "Right. And what does your brother think about all this? Any bad feelings?"

Christopher quickly raises his glass, dark liquid sloshing as he takes a long, contemplative sip. "He's fled to the continent with a small sum my father allotted him. I haven't heard from him since January," he mentions with the first twinge of somberness all evening. His eyes wander to the pianist embarking on an ambitious solo, his finger absently tapping to the rhythm. "Jack...he's always lived life with the assumption that everything will go to him, lock, stock and barrel, and so had never seen the need for merit. It made him arrogant, I think." He downs the rest of his glass. "And then came the war."

"You fought."

"Naturally. Our family's position is such that it was more a requirement than an expectation. My brother and I were even in the same regiment!" His spirits seemed to have resurfaced, but the ensuing laugh is rueful. "It strikes me as exceedingly odd, how the same experiences can shape two men so differently. Jack and I had, for all intents and purposes, the same upbringing – the same parents, the same education – yet even at a young age there was a wildness about him. It was fairly innocent at first, but over time it grew, like thorns and thistles, less benign with every year. The war was the tipping point. We were both at the front –"

"Yes." Branson nods. "I saw the record."

"Don't be fooled. Those old things are doctored up for show – believe them and you'll believe we all single handedly won the war." Tracing the rim of his glass with his thumb, he peers down into the remaining dregs. "In all honesty, we accomplished almost nothing, and were only there for a few months. We spent the majority of our time behind the lines, in logistics." He looks up again. "But being abroad, and in those circumstances... for myself, my time in France made me only more aware of how imperative it is to make the most of what I've been given. But for Jack, it gave lease to that innate malevolence that I believe he has always tried to suppress."

"You talk as if he had no say in the choices he made with his life," Branson says with some shock.

Christopher's eyebrows arch. "Perhaps he didn't. I look at my brother, and then at myself...and I become persuaded that in the end our measure _must_ be determined by something outside of ourselves: disposition, temperament...our natural inclinations, if you will."

Branson frowns. "So it's nature over nurture, you mean."

"Exactly." He lifts his glass in a faux-toast, fore finger pointing. "But for the grace of God go I, amen?"

Branson's laugh is sardonic. "I couldn't say. I don't believe in God."

"But don't you?" Christopher starts in with a small chuckle but it quickly crescendos, and perhaps it is the drink he has imbibed, but he seems to find Branson's blasphemy hilarious. "Well," he says after the laughter creeps down, "then what do you believe in?"

"As I said, this interview's not about me. But if I had to commit, I'd say I think people decide for themselves what they're going to be. Free will, and all of that," he says with a smirk, lifting his glass. "Amen?"

Christopher laughs again. "Fair enough. And perhaps you're right – but I've found there are those indelible qualities – whether we possess them or merely admire them. A part of us, always, no matter how much we might wish them eliminated."

The smirk vanishes as Branson brings his full drink to his lips, washing it down with a single, burning gulp. The truth is that his belief in God is currently unformed, amorphous and ever shifting as the clouded heavens where that no one or someone dwells. Yet how easily the contrarian had slipped into place to appease his inner man, the one that always begged to differ, to have the run of authority, to defy the powers that be – his natural inclination, as Christopher had put it, that his mother would testify existed from the first wayward kick to her ribs.

A part of him always – just as the face that daily haunts, conjured up by the remotest of reminders – always a part of him.

_Always?_

But he wants to be happy. To make himself happy. Will himself happy. Decide for himself, as he had insisted just seconds before, that he will choose to be happy. He makes the effort. He thinks he makes the effort. Where has that free will gone? For never a day goes by that he isn't thwarted, and he can't see any of God's grace in that.

Christopher's eye narrow with concern. Branson never had a genius for masquerading and his expression begins to mirror his mood. "Forgive me," Christopher says. "I don't mean to bore you with philosophy."

Branson raises his hand. "You didn't –"

"It's all right. And really, I should be leaving. I have plans tonight – a benefit gala to raise money for the Hospital's relocation. Cocktails, _hors d'oeuvre_, and a silent auction in the back. We're hoping to raise at least two thousand pounds for construction of the new home, and of course money for transport." He leans forward. "Would you care to join me? It'd be a good opportunity to see what type of work I do."

Already exhausted, Branson makes a show of considering the late hour displayed on the clock, scrambling for an excuse. "I should probably get back to the hotel and get some rest. It'll be a busy week."

"Of course you'll do what you think you must... but please consider. I think you'll find the company diverting, if nothing else."

Branson picks up his glass. He stares into the empty bottom. "Free drinks?"

Christopher smiles. "For you there will be."

* * *

The mirror is only half an inch away from his face as he leans in to inspect the minor details. His eyes are bloodshot, cushioned by small creases that he definitely did not inherit from an overabundance of laughing. The face looks worn, deprived of the basics. He needs a haircut. He needs a new life, but that won't happen this side of perdition.

He pours water into the ceramic basin and splashes it onto his face, quickly shaves, then pads over to the wardrobe and pulls out a dark suit that smells of mothballs and cedar, a testament to its obsolescence in his life. His type of work, his type of journalism – current assignment excluded – doesn't lend itself to hobnobbing. The ink at Versailles was still wet when Ireland declared its war, and he'd left one battleground only to be flung into another, trenches formed of city rubble and the ash heaps of broken promises, an army of subjects turned insurgents, pushed to the breaking. And still smarting from the singe of his dalliance with the enemy, and with nothing to check his pursuant recklessness, he had eagerly joined the ranks, pen and paper in hand to inflame the public with every biased detail. And he bled green, a Republican through and through – or so he had thought while caught up in the throes of revolutionary ardor, and before the breach of peace when the real bloodshed began.

Now years later the dust has settled, but at times the deep ruptures in his country seem irreparable, after witnessing the comrade in arms turn to executioners at the behest of their conquerors. And had it all been for nothing? So much fight they'd put up only to lay it down now, and after all the rank betrayal. He wonders if it will be worth it, to take the oath, to solemnly swear to _be faithful to His Majesty King George V, his heirs and successors – _knowing full well that every word is a lie and but a lip service in concession to the supposed greater good, a conundrum with which Machiavelli would have a field day.

But all of that for another day, as it always is as the night draws to a close, and at a quarter to nine he goes downstairs to the cab Christopher has sent for him. It drives him into Belgravia, to Upper Belgrave, and up a drive that ends at a palatial home that glows like a polished pearl with its white stuccoed walls and forest of electric lamp lights. Activity pulsates from within, people sliding in and out. A train of sleek cars lines the curb, several of '26 model Renaults, a smattering of Rolls Royce sedans, and he nearly begins salivating over a midnight blue Bugatti roadster.

But he's not here to swap stories about cars with the milling chauffeurs smoking out back. His prediction has come true, and he'll be consorting with the blue-blooded variety once again, only this time on the other side of the velvet rope. Christopher meets him in front and guides him up the steps, and for the second time in his life Branson enters through the front door.

The two walk in under the glittering chandeliers. Christopher begins maneuvering, making the rounds of acquaintances via way of the bar, that laugh of his trailing them everywhere. A half hour passes amiably, and true to his word the drinks have been plentiful. Christopher ends his conversation with a pleasant looking gentleman, and looks to be searching out the room. Branson tries to follow his eyes to find the culprit, but all the heads seem to have the same shaped bob or stiff, pomaded hair, and his vision is no longer the keenest, especially not when he's on his third cocktail.

But Christopher's eyes soon make a show of success. He raises a waving hand, signaling someone over.

"And now for my ulterior motives in asking you here tonight," he says. "I'd like you to meet someone. She's been instrumental in coordinating the relocation of the hospital, and has in fact been the inspiration behind much of my recent philanthropy. To that end, I think she deserves a place in anything you'll be writing about me."

"All right, then," Branson says, taking note. "What's her name?"

"Lady Sybil Crawley."

He has misheard. "I'm sorry?"

"Lady Sybil Crawley."

Was it his fourth drink or his third? "Lady Sybil?"

"Yes, that's right."

But he doesn't believe in fate. "Lady Sybil... Crawley?"

"Yes," he laughs. "Not the most common of names, I know."

And he didn't believe her. "You mean she's not married?"

The sound of a dying heart could be heard in his voice, but Christopher's spirits are high, and he only laughs. "I should hope not, since I'm planning on proposing to her myself!"

And Branson has no time to feel jealous, no time to feel anything, for in one breathless moment she is upon them, no more than an arms length away, and looking straight at him.

* * *

_The Administration of Estates Act passed in 1925 basically did away with entails, primogeniture, etc and ushered in what we now know as modern inheritance law._

_The Foundling Hospital was a home set up for abandoned children in London, which actually _was_ moved into the country in 1926. I have no idea if they had a fundraiser for the move, that part was artistic license._

_Eamon De Valera was a figurehead for the anti-treaty group during the Irish civil war. This group was basically squelched by the much more heavily armed pro-treaty group, although both sides were particularly brutal and the aftermath left the country feeling bitter and divided. By 1926 things have calmed down. De Valera formed his own political party, Fianna Fail, which that year decided to take the oath which was one of the requirements of the original treaty and which had caused so much division during the war._

_Hope that helps! And thanks for reading!_


	3. Chapter 3: Scars

_I really don't have enough words to thank mrstater. Aside from betaing these monster chapters she also puts up with all my pestering and keeps me on task. Also much thanks afraidnotscared for helping me shape this story. _

* * *

_The country is thick into the lean years of war. Tact and prudence dictate the suspension of past years' extravagance, and last week, when the old year elapsed into the new, the Crawleys held only a lackluster party made up of close family and a few friends in celebration – polite conversation, bridge, tea and coffee – and when the ancestral clock in the evening parlor struck midnight to a round of half hearted cheering, Sybil remained quiet, gazing out of the window into the unreachable night. _It is 1916_, she thought, _another year for resolutions, another year for killing_ – and each day that passes dilutes her sense of optimism._

_The war itself is an insatiable beast. It devours, discards all those familiar names like a picked-over carcass, the pile stacking high as her heart grows denser, an added encumbrance to her stolen youth as she seeks to navigate a world more fearsome and savage than she had ever before imagined._

_All this she suffers – alongside his recent attitude, which of late has not been helpful, ill winds from back home which have blown into him a moodiness that is temperamental yet at all times intractable._

"_Look at this," he says that afternoon. It is bitingly cold, she forgot her gloves when she escaped the house, and the tips of her fingers tingle like pinpricks. "They're going to start conscripting." _

_She takes the paper he holds out to her, shrinking a little at his contained outrage as she reads the headline:_

_**Military Service Bill introduced to Parliament**_

_She sighs, handing it back. "You don't know that. It might not pass."_

"_It's going to pass." _

_Sybil frowns. The sting in her fingers travels upward, and she rubs her arms against the encroaching cold. It's begun to bother her, she decides right then, the way he talks so surely of the future. _

_And then with gall he continues on, gesticulating in his confident, irascible way: "And then everyone who was smart enough not to sign up for this war is going to be carted off to fight anyway." _

_Now she is more than bothered. _

"_So everyone who enlisted is stupid?" Her hands fly to her hips, elbows akimbo. "Gregory is stupid?" she asks, volume rising. "Mr. Levine is stupid? _Matthew_ is stupid?" _

_He doesn't dare, but Sybil can tell he is just itching to roll his eyes. "I didn't say that..."_

"_Then just what are you saying?" She crosses her arms over her chest, juts out her jaw. Her father hasn't had it this bad for _months_. "Well?"_

_He looks down to the floor. "I don't want an argument." _

_The matter could drop, if she will but consent to release it. But she's angry, filled to the brim with unspent wrath, and she won't let him get away. "Well, you've got one!" _

_He holds out his hands, warding her off. "I don't mean any disrespect. But I don't think the people who were lining up to get shipped to France when war was first announced exactly knew what they were signing up for."_

"_So they're just the poor, uninformed masses, is that it?" _

_She knows she is being partially unfair, twisting his opinions into insults; but she has a box full of letters as her only testament to the dead with whom she will never again dance, and his words pierce deeply, a double-edged sword of audacity and brutal honesty. And he has gotten on her testy side, something not easily accomplished and even less easily absolved, and so she says with a step forward, "Well. Thankfully you knew better. And besides," she adds with a wave of her hand, "even if conscription does come to pass, you needn't worry. It won't extend to Ireland, and I know that's all _you_ care about."_

"_Right. All I care about is Ireland," he turns to say to the garage walls of Downton Abbey in Yorkshire, England. Then he turns back to regard her again, and takes his own step forward. "And suppose I do? It's my country, my people. What is it you care about? Your country? Your countrymen? They're the ones who willingly stepped into this war in the first place, and now they want to drag every man off to the trenches whether they want it or not. So if you're tired of the fighting and you truly want an argument, then I suggest you take it up with them, not the bloody chauffeur!"_

_She opens her mouth, affronted, but nothing comes out, and after that she can do nothing else but walk quickly and stiffly away without even the impression of a goodbye. And why does he deserve a farewell? Why does he deserve even a conversation? Why does he deserve anything from me at all? Why _do_ I care what the chauffeur thinks? She stops –_ I don't _– and after a good stomp in the gardens her anger is mollified. But at dinner her appetite is fussy, half-eaten grapes and untouched puddings, which garner sidelong glances from her sisters, but mercifully nothing more._

_The breach gnaws at her throughout the week. She can't bear a visit, not to where he holds the upper hand, and there is nothing truly like neutral territory for them. But on Friday he drives her and Mama to Ripon for the newest exhibit at the gallery, and she decides that will have to be close enough. Mama prattles, she offers the unthinking, perfunctory replies, and he looks proper and dissembling as he always does while working. It is only after her mother has them stop, leaves them alone so she can speak with a passing friend, that he looks contrite. _

_But still, her mother is four yards away, and he will not speak out of place._

_So Sybil clears her throat: "About Tuesday..."_

_And he whips around, practically gushing, "I'm sorry about what I said, milady. It was wrong of me to say those things, and very out of turn."_

_The storm has passed, and she smiles at what she assumes are clear skies ahead. "Oh, Branson. Please don't apologize. And not like that, for heaven's sake!" And then she laughs. Laughs, because it is not even their first argument, and she secretly hopes it will not be their last, for each time the rupture occurs they are eventually sutured back together, made stronger, she feels, and which she finds oddly comforting for all that it once wounded. And she laughs again, for she is fully convinced of this deduction, until –_

"_Then how should I apologize?" _

_He does not laugh. Rather, he stares intensely at her. And the seriousness of his eyes tells her he is not being rhetorical. Sybil looks down and away, biting her lip._

_But just then Mama returns, Branson's facade of professionalism returns as he hops out to hand her in, and Sybil is left to her disquietude, her hopes that they will never again argue, not even once, for there are only so many times they can scab and heal over before they will be left unrecognizable._

**Scars**

On her thirtieth birthday, Sybil arrives at Grantham House to a crystal vase bursting with a bouquet of white roses, along with a note which makes her smile as she reads.

Nearby, Mary spies out of her periphery as she fixes an arrangement on the console. "Those came for you an hour ago," she says without looking away. "Who are they from?"

Sybil slips the card into her handbag. "You don't really know him. His name's Christopher Galding. He's one of Lord Sheffield's sons." She presses her nose into a bloom. "Oh, but come look at them, Mary! They smell lovely."

"The second son?" Mary asks, clipping a stem.

Sybil closes her eyes as she takes a breath. "Yes."

"I see." Mary works for a minute more, appearing highly unamused by the disobedience of the camellias. "And do I need to feel sorry for him?"

"Well, I see no reason to. But I wouldn't let that stop you. I know how you like to make a habit out of feeling sorry for everyone."

Mary concedes with a conciliatory look her way, and a smile. "True enough. Except for Edith, of course, who always deserves whatever comes to her."

"I heard that," Edith deadpans behind her magazine from the chair between them, and Sybil laughs.

And once again they are all of them friends, and all of them enemies, just as it should be and shall always be, and so Sybil ascends the steps to her bedchamber and leaves her sisters to their eminent squabbling, a dual comfort in both the familiarity and distraction it affords. Once behind the closed, locked door and completely out of her sisters' line of sight, she shakes off her put-on levity, the easy laugh which she assembles with some difficulty, lying across the divan in her room with a countenance much more sober.

She is troubled. Christopher's gift is troubling. For in truth she feels that he may very well come to require Mary's condolences. He is nice and she likes him, rather – he did well in securing one of her favorite blooms. Indeed, his attempt was very close; except, of course, for what he could not have known: that Sybil does not like cut flowers. That she prefers her blossoms to be sprouting out of potted plants or gardens to seeing them shaved off for ornamentation. That she enjoys the earth, delights in the smells and messiness and creeping things of living flora.

That he is so close and so far short of perfection that she fears she can never accept him.

There is no logic behind it, she freely admits. If not even she can make sense of the incommunicable meditations of her heart, how then can mere words be expected to express the turmoil that bricks up it up into a keyless chamber, and which dictates each of her staunch, predictable refusals. But a year after Mr. Grey was shown the door, right after Captain Ashford's proposal had been politely declined, yet before Lord Tampyl became studiously avoided, Mary began to wonder, to the point where she cornered her youngest sister one afternoon in the East gardens of Downton:

_She reads amongst the daffodils. "You're not putting any hope in him, are you?" Mary demands._

_Sybil sets aside the book before making her reply, simultaneously innocuous and standoffish. "I don't know what you mean."_

"_Please, Sybil. I don't want an argument. I'm simply worried."_

"_Why? Aren't I allowed to _not_ marry someone without an inquisition? I didn't like him, not well enough to marry him. _

"_And that's it?"_

_She shrugs. "Mostly."_

"_Oh, Sybil..."_

"_It's not what you're thinking. I know..." She swallows. "I know all of that is over. I know I'll most likely never see him again. But..." She grows quiet. "But I did promise him. I told him I'd stay true, and I keep my promises."_

"_Do you?" Despite the flimsiness of Sybil's reasoning and the potentially severe repercussions, Mary cannot help herself. "Because I once recall a promise to refrain from doing anything stupid."_

"_Well, you weren't very specific about what qualified as stupid, and I made my own judgment." Her arms cross. "Now are you finished?"_

_Mary's voiced softens. "You don't need to put your life on hold for something you said years ago. No one could fault you for moving on, least of all _him_. And Please remember that I am not the enemy. That I will always be your ally in everything."_

The tears had pricked, and Sybil could not describe it then, just as she is unable to now, the impulsions which drive her further out to sea and towards that deserted isle, her smile always bright as the beacons but marooned all the same. And rather than fold herself into her sister's embrace she had left, huffily and hastily, in her former petulant way, which she occasionally still relied upon to extricate herself from unwelcome inquiries. A return to form – that Sybil Crawley, the eternal rebel, living out life on her toes, no trepidations to keep her from plunging head first into anything that stoked the flames. And even years later that is still who she appears to the wider world at large, and often even to her own kin; but there were once those who knew her better.

_You're too scared to admit it..._

Ah, but she had been scared. And she still is – that resting, unnamed fear in Sybil's heart, intimating to the back of her mind that the excuse of her promise is surely only a blind to the truth which she refuses to own, which she will not own – even in this sanctuary where she lays by herself, hidden in the hollow.

The sunlight filtering through the windows begins to slant and her eyes become leaden. It was a busy morning, a tiring afternoon, and a late-day nap has come to call. She rebuffs its advance, for in these intervening years between her heart's exile and whatever as yet unimagined future lay in store, daylight and activity have been the salve to painful rumination. Indeed, it is always the nights which do the most damage, when her mind relaxes into the shade of all those _ifs_ and _maybes_ as she indulges in the unreality.

If she had asked his opinion, for one. That is always where the revisions start. If she had spoken to him of the misgivings that had germinated in the car, taken root on the way up the steps to their hotel, and finally blossomed at her sisters' arrival. If she had explained to him that _not now_ did not truly mean _not ever_, then –

Maybe if she had changed her phrasing. Just a word or two, perhaps – _Believe it or not _clearly did not answer. Maybe – _Believe me. _Maybe –_ Wait for me. I love you. _Maybe – maybe if she had spoken to _him_ instead of to _herself_, then –

If she had not _left_. If she had simply _stayed_, then –

The visions of her altered futures disappear like sand in a sieve, Sybil left grasping as a fair-toned "Milady?" and a succession of light knocks wakes her with a start.

"Come in Fiona, please," Sybil addresses the peeking, white-capped head in the doorframe. She rubs her eyes, then stands and stretches, working out the kinks in her aging neck as the maid walks briskly in, unrolling her Lady's evening attire with a look of glee.

"I've just finished the new hem." Fiona's tone bounces as she gives the garment a shake, sending the furbelow of long, threaded drops dancing. The sheen in the fabric gives the illusion of sparkles, restoring Sybil to the present and elevating her mood.

"It's _gorgeous_. Come, bring it here!"

They share laughter as Fiona slips the dress over Sybil's head. Fiona plucks and pins, then dabs on the perfume, and finally the accoutrements are all laid and the last hook on her emerald colored gown is in place. It's silky and scanty, in the modern style, shorn off at the knees and putting her naked shoulders to good advantage. Fiona does her long hair up into plaits, and then mounts it into a bejeweled pile on the top of her head. A bit of the old world and the new, not so much clashing as melding together to create an appearance of one both in and out of the times – a contradiction; a mystery. And this is what continues to captivate even as her age climbs higher and the coffers in her family vaults disappear one by one with every bad turn in the market and new tax imposed.

Sybil inspects herself in the mirror. "I'll be late Fiona, so don't wait up." And after a sweeping, approving once over Fiona sends her off, precariously shod in a set of high heels as she floats down the stairs to the open admiration of her brother and sister.

Matthew smiles:

"I don't find it quite the thing to be abandoning us on your birthday." He helps her down from the bottom step and kisses her cheek. "You look lovely, Sybil. Now where are you off to?"

"A gala for the hospital," she replies, and pats a tuft of hair. "Edith's already out?" she asks Mary.

"Michael took her to a club. But she'll be at dinner tomorrow."

"Ah." Sybil makes to leave, then suddenly gasps and pulls a face. "And look, I've forgotten my bag!" She throws her bare arms up in the air and turns to go back upstairs when Matthew stops her.

"You're walking on a pair of needles, as it is. Stay here. I'll fetch it."

When Matthew's safely out of earshot Mary leans closer, nudging Sybil's shoulder with her own. "Matthew's right, you know. You look incredible." Sybil smiles shyly, for even after all these years a compliment from her elder sister still retains the power to send her blushing. "Now you be good tonight," Mary teases. "Who's going to be there?"

"Only a handful you might know. Gloria Chester. The Elliots. And Lucy told me she'd have stop in." She hesitates. "And Christopher will be there," she blurts out.

"Will he?" Mary says, the second eyebrow lifting in what Sybil can only assume is lucky triumph. "Well, in that case, I give you full leave to discard my previous orders."

"Mary, please –"

"I want to meet him," she steamrollers, linking elbows. "Shall I invite him for tomorrow's dinner?"

Sybil reclaims her arm with a smile. "Nothing so extreme, thank you. But if you're very lucky I might have him to tea one afternoon." She shrugs. "He's only a friend!"

"Only a friend who sends round flowers on your birthday?" Sybil's tightening smile is losing its patience, and Mary's tone and features wisely ease off. "Speaking of which: Happy Birthday, darling. Tomorrow we're having cake – Mrs. Dalton's got the receipt from Downton, the one with chocolate and strawberries that you like so much." She smiles. "Now, tell me I've done well, and then promise you'll save some for the rest of us."

Sybil laughs. "I'll save my appetite, and you'll be thankful if there's any left overs." She shrugs. "It is my birthday, after all!"

The tete a tete dies as Matthew returns a champion, clutching the small bag and handing it over. Sybil gratifies him with praise and then steps outside into the balmy evening, giving a short wave over her shoulder as the chauffeur opens the door, and then slides inside.

"Sheffield place, Belgravia."

"Yes, milady," comes the reply, and then silence. Sybil snuggles into the seat for the drive, then closes her eyes. What she struggles to see in the self-imposed darkness are those faint vestiges of a dream's imprint. Pockets of visions temporarily reclaimed – a port city in a constant drizzle, a family where every face is blurred but two, herself and the one standing beside her. And she relishes them, for she knows it they will all be gone by morning. And she hates them, for she knows they will come back to haunt her the very next night.

An automatous voice rouses her: "Five more minutes, milady."

"Thank you, Lewis."

And then she smiles at the man who has most likely not noticed the courtesy, habituated as he is to keeping his eyes fully on the road rather than halfway on the rear view. A stark contrast to the time when she could always count on a pair of observing eyes smiling at her from the mirror whenever she wanted them. Sybil suspects Mary made Matthew hire Lewis, a short, balding man from Wales, entirely for her benefit. Though Mary has never bragged over it, she feels it must be so, for the new chauffeur evokes nothing of the old pangs, and anytime Lewis does choose to rattle off in a way reminiscent of his predecessor it's inevitably about sport. Sybil appreciates it immensely, that unspoken kindness that defines her eldest sister, as well as the limitless invitation to stay with her and her husband in Grantham House extended after their marriage six years ago. She enjoys her life in London, and would not trade it for anything – for _most_ anything – and with her charities and her political groups and her saturated social calendar she has managed to piecemeal together a meaningful existence from the wreckage, inside perhaps still bruising from those deep damages, but in all outward appearances whole and healed – well-functioning, if though somewhat lacking in her former luster.

They arrive at Upper Belgrave fashionably though not unpardonably late. Lewis opens the door and hands her out, and she clacks up the steps one by one. Inside the gala is in full swing, bodies closely packed, the air swarming with talk, laughter rising like summer air. She pushes in, turning up her chin and casting about for any and all acquaintances. She sees Gloria, over animated in her usual way, who then pounces on her, aflutter with the newest bands sweeping in to town, and they converse for awhile. When the talk and Gloria's attention wanes Sybil moves on, wandering towards the bar when she catches Christopher's laughing eyes and upraised hand hailing her from the center of the room, and while heart does not soar or even skip it propels her stridently towards him with that undulating excitement she gets whenever he is near, the prospect of his company both an anticipation and a dread.

Sweat and scents mingle as she squeezes herself through the crowd, passing through conversations until she has reached him, and after a short minute she is directly beside him.

To Christopher's other side, companionably close by, stands a stranger. She thinks he might be looking at her, but Christopher immediately claims her complete intention with the fully intoned, "Lady Sybil!" and a hearty shake of the hands.

"Now look here," Christopher cries, "there's someone I want you to meet!"

And she smiles, turns to accommodate the introduction.

"This is Tom Branson –"

And anything said afterward goes unheard, eyes widening, mouth dropping with the same velocity as her hands, and her stomach, and her heart. And the whole of her is falling, collapsing through the floor and into a bottomless heap as she looks up to find herself staring into the face of her past.

* * *

The noise of the party is nothing extraordinary. Chatter, laughter, and that seamless flutter of movement all aggregate into a mild hum, while a string quartet whose breezy notes provide a measure of stability to the packed room plays unobstructed on a raised. Indeed, it is nothing but the background levels that anyone would expect at any crowded function – yet how it deafens.

Not quite a decade. Seven years. To the minute – seven years, four months, and twenty two days.

And here he is.

The room crescendos. Every sense overflows, rendering her mute, and Sybil feels she cannot stand one more decibel. And while she would call for silence, she suspects the cacophony is mostly due the screaming in her skull.

She opens her mouth. "I –" The air is not coming. "I need to leave."

And she does. Hastily. To the evident confusion of everyone but one.

"Lady Sybil?" Like a clarion call Christopher's cry dispels the brief suspension in time, moving it forward again. Branson watches her leave. His eyes are not the only ones following her as she weaves through the crowd towards an exit. "Perhaps she needed some air," Christoher says with uncertainty. "Rather stuffy in here, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes," Branson says absently, motionless save for his heart, which is as a stampede.

Christopher looks back to his journalist with narrowed eyes, the barest hint of suspicion. "I don't mean to pry, but I couldn't help but notice..."

"Yes?"

"You two seemed... acquainted?"

"Yes. Yes, I know her."

"Ah."

The note of peremptory inference snaps Branson back. "I was her _chauffeur_," he says, as if to disabuse any untoward notions, the irony of which flying completely overhead.

"Oh." A swift array of emotions passes across Christopher's face, one look melting into the next, first struck, then comprehending, and then finally slightly embarrassed. "Oh!" he says again, laughing with a giddiness that resembles relief. "Her chauffeur, yes, I suppose that makes sense. Drove them all around in their misguided youths," he prattles on, muttering to what seems to be only himself, a vacancy to his left side and to his right a mind no longer attending, and where one minute later stands no one at all.

* * *

The night is warm and graciously so, given her sparse attire and foreknowledge that she will not be going back indoors for some time. The vigor of outdoors refreshes her. Her breathing eases and her blood pressure spirals back down to nearly normal. Bodily, she feels none worse for the wear, and rather than lean against the cold, hard stucco wall to alleviate the last of the dizziness she walks several paces into what she realizes are the west gardens, appearing to any unobservant passerby undisturbed and relaxed, as if she had just stepped out for some air.

His sudden appearance threw her. There she was living out each uneventful day, and then in one life-altering instant confronted with the image of his very real face. Like a caged animal released into the arena. Fight or flight. And her instinct had chosen the latter, fled to the nearest door she could crash through. It was unlike her, to yield the battle in such a way; but she had come unequipped. Or rather, he stripped her of her natural shields, leaving her defenseless, just as he had always done. And so she ran, just what _she_ had always done, wherever he was concerned. And just what was she always running from? He is not her enemy, has never been her enemy. No, her true opponent is much more nefarious, one which she cannot name, which seems to abide within her and over which she has no control.

Couples and small groups wind through the larger paths, and she easily sidesteps to avoid, choosing the narrower ways that lead to the unoccupied enclaves, walls and rooftops of green that are dotted with flowers made monochromatic due the remote light of the house, the dim glow of the moon, awash in midnight air that is more blue than black. But her trail is not cold enough to stay hidden for very long, and she is unsurprised when she hears footsteps approaching.

They are not the vibrant, purposeful footfalls of Christopher. They are guarded and methodical, and she braces herself before she turns and sees him. He is nearby but still at a distance. He looks at her but he does not walk towards her. Instead he hovers, stalking the periphery of a wide circumference as if he isn't sure how close he is allowed. His hand disappears into a breast pocket, emerging with the necessary objects, lighting up a cigarette.

She glances over warily. Greetings seem superfluous at this point, almost gauche in their triviality. "You smoke?" is the first thing she thinks to say.

"I do now." He is staring at her. "Do you want one?" he asks, reaching back towards his breast pocket.

She shakes her head. "I quit." He looks partly astonished at the news. "It's an awful habit," she says as almost a challenge.

"You're probably right." He takes another puff.

"Tom."

The silence goes by. And then after what must be a full minute:

"Sybil."

The ludicrousness is getting to her. The banality sickens her. But what type of conversation are they meant to have? The only one that matters, she decides.

"Tom, why are you here?" she snaps, her mouth a thin line, fists clenched at her side.

"I'm on assignment. I'm writing an article about Christopher for my paper."

"Oh." She's not shocked, but she is. She had thought – she's not sure what she had thought. She had thought, for only a fraction of a fraction of time, that perhaps – "Oh. Oh yes, of course. Of course that's why you're here." She gathers her arms in, clutching her elbows. "I should leave," she says, and turns to make good.

"No, wait." He moves to intercept her and they meet at a junction, blocking her retreat.

Now she is close enough to discern the changes. Older, thinner. More world-weary, but that may just be the circumstances. His eyes are so blue even in the darkness that she looks away and to the side, biting her lip.

"Yes?" she says.

And in the corner of her eye she sees that his eyes are still on her but rather than lost they look to be thinking. Scrambling. "You're thirty today, yes?"

She nods. "You remember?"

He nods. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you." She looks down, uncomfortable. Everything is absurd and she hates it. And he won't stop looking at her. "You're staring."

"I'm sorry," he says, but does not look away.

She looks back up. Now she is close to angry. "Do you see anything interesting? Only you look like you're watching a very good picture."

"I just can't really believe it."

"What? That I'm still here, living in England?"

"No, not that. I figured that, but – But I thought – I thought you'd be married." And he is still looking, looking with longing, with eyes that appear rather broken.

And her eyes begin to cloud and shimmer, like two dying stars in the silver light. "No. No, I'm not." A vicious thought impales her. "Are you?" she asks without breath.

He shakes his head.

"I see." And then after a small minute of silence she starts a soft laughter which is halfway to a sob, shoulders shaking.

He does not laugh. Or cry. "And here we are."

Sybil's laughter dies in her collapsing throat. She swallows heavily. An incredible weight bears down over them, crushing them with a burden that feels more like waste. _Seven years_.

"Actually, I think I will have that cigarette after all, if you don't mind." And she extends a trembling hand.

He lights it before handing it to her, and she has just set it to her lips as Christopher comes booming towards them – "Lady Sybil!" – across the whole length of the courtyard with that inescapable laugh of his. "We've done it! Reached our goal and five hundred pounds besides!"

A brilliant smile immediately sets on her lips.

"How wonderful!" she intones with a joy that does not match her face, a failing she does not bother to remedy until Christopher draws closer, and as he does she slowly rights her features to the standard of expectation. When he's at last upon them he notices:

"What's this? I didn't know you smoked."

She stares down at the smoking stick between her fingers as if she has no idea how it got there. "I don't!" She throws it to the floor and stubs the remains out with her toe, then looks up at him with a smile as serene as painted glass. "Sorry to have rushed off like that. I hope you weren't offended, but I needed some air. I was fit to suffocate in that room."

"I know the feeling. I do so hate crowds, but in this case I'm very glad for the high turnout. Wonderful, isn't?"

She nods. "Yes! Wonderful!"

"And are you feeling better?"

She nods again. "Yes." She laughs. "Just needed some fresh air! And now I've got it I shall be just fine."

"Well then." He holds out his arm. "Shall we go back in?

"Actually... I'm awfully tired. I think I'll head home?"

He smiles fondly. "Let's have the cars brought round, shall we?" He faces Branson, whose presence has gone ignored through the entirety of the exchange, as Sybil makes her way towards him. "Tomorrow morning, Tom? Nine O'clock at Mervin's?"

Branson nods dumbly, staring at her as she fits her arm into Christopher's and he escorts her away.

* * *

She leaves the party at midnight. She is home not long after. She doesn't even so much as look at the bell, quietly slipping through the door and easing up the stairs with no one the wiser, darkness bearing at her back.

She takes out the pins in her hair two at time, leaves them a scattered mess on the floor. She twists her long, tangled strands into a sloppy braid, then undresses down to her chemise and climbs into bed.

She stares up at the ceiling with dry, pained eyes, enumerating the lost days.

She does not sleep.

And so she does not need to wake up, and redresses herself in the early hours, conceals the chaos of her hair with a smart hat, and is gone before first light.

But there is no escaping dinner, she reasons as she meanders along the promenades of St. James, alone save for her many, private agonies. Not when there is a special receipt for pudding come from Downton, and it is being held especially in her honor.

She arrives back home late afternoon. Her head feels as though an axe has been embedded at its base, and Fiona remarks on her drawn features.

"A late night, milady?" she croons sympathetically.

Sybil swallows hard, then smiles. "Yes. But it was a good party, and I'm looking forward to dinner." Her smile brightens. "Everyone loved my hair! There were at least half a dozen compliments on the styling alone." And Fiona beams.

* * *

Her birthday dinner is lightly attended. Only Edith and Michael, and Mary and Matthew, and herself makes five, the indefinite spare wheel. Her parents did not desire to make the trip down and she considers this a blessing, for their worry masked as criticism can only add to the welter bubbling under the surface. But she coaxes it down and smiles bravely on as they are served her favorite chicken dish.

The much aggrandized pudding is a flambe, and makes its appearance with the flourish that only a butler can manage. Sybil enjoys the performance but wonders how Jones manages to stay un-singed, and forces down her portion, the caramelized strawberries too sweet, the dark chocolate too bitter. When everyone is down to licking their spoons she rises, claiming exhaustion, and retires early.

No one stops her or even questions, and that should be her first clue. But she is so absorbed in the blow of last night that she is past any social insight, which was never her forte anyway, and after Fiona readies her for bed she sits at the vanity, props her chin into her splayed hands and stares into her ever reflecting self, her limitless anguish.

So much undisturbed time passes that she physically startles at the sharp rapping. "Come in?" The door opens to reveal Mary, tall and strong and oozing with comfort, and Sybil nearly breaks down in tears.

"It's past midnight," Sybil says looking back to the mirror. "Matthew doesn't mind?"

In the reflection Sybil sees Mary shut the door. "Matthew has no say." She sits on the edge of the turned down bed. "Come. Sit here and tell me how you're bearing up." Mary had been pushy before, but the benefit of motherhood and its required nurturing has turned her nearly warlike in her proclivity to protect those she holds dear.

Sybil leaves the vanity, sniffling along the way, and sits beside her sister. "You know, don't you?" She bends down and rubs her palms into her eyes, shooing away the moisture. Once tolerably composed she looks up again. "And when did you find out?"

Mary gives a lackadaisical shrug, but her eyes are serious. "Edith told me before dinner. Lucy went out to the clubs after the party and saw Edith. She mentioned something to her and Michael about being introduced to an Irish journalist."

"There must be hundreds of those."

"Yes, but only one named Tom Branson, lately of Yorkshire."

"Not quite 'lately.'" Sybil looks down at her fingers and begins fiddling with the drawstrings on her nightgown. "He's here to write an article about Christopher inheriting the estate." She tosses her head back, shaking her head with a smile. "Just my luck!"

"You never know. Perhaps it is."

"No." Sybil closes her eyes. "Don't start with that, Mary, Please. You didn't want me to marry him the first go around!"

"Don't be absurd. I'm not talking about marriage." She takes Sybil's chin, directing her aspect till they are looking eye to eye. "I'm talking about _closure_," she says. "The two of you parted so abruptly, with too many things left unresolved. Now by some stroke of mad luck he's here, and you might finally be able to close that chapter in your life and move forward."

"I don't know, Mary. He can't be here for very long. I could avoid him, I think. If I wanted to."

"And do you want to?"

"I don't know. I've never been good at sorting those things out." Never one to dwell, and even now Sybil must push herself to standing, must begin pacing, the movement agitating her further until she starts gesturing. "Everything's finished, and has been for so long. What purpose can there be, after all these years?"

"Stop prowling and come sit back down." Sybil sighs, and then obeys. "Often we build these things up in our minds. We let them overpower us, paralyze us. And I've found that sometimes what is best is to tackle them head on, if we want to have any hope in defeating them." She tucks her chin in till her eyes level with Sybil's. 'What does not kill us,' as they say."

Sybil shakes her head. "I still don't know."

Mary shrugs – "Think about it" – and then leaves.

Sybil shuts off the lights and lies down. And in the exonerating darkness she does think, thinks about how long she had hoped, thinks about how long she has ceased to hope, how she was so sure she would never see him again. She thinks about the incalculable, lonely hours she has spent clipping out articles, arranging them chronologically in a box sequestered in the back of her closet as she followed his career, from one paper to the next, reading and rereading his words in place of hearing them spoken to her. She thinks about how much she has missed that voice, how she had yearned for even a whisper, just a single breath of the fire. She thinks about how that voice has changed, the timbre slightly deeper, less expressive, but still with that power to unearth her, to chain her, to leave her sleepless from one night to the next.

_Believe it or not._

She thinks about her promise, and her stubborn adherence to it. And she thinks about closure, as Mary had said, and it is that word which stays with her all night and into the next morning, when she leaves for the debriefing for her Hospital's fundraising event. She arrives five minutes late, and finds everyone already seated, including Christopher. And Branson sits right beside him, with a face that looks tired and grave, watching her, a pair of stalking eyes that trail her from the door and across the room, where she takes the farthest seat available from the pair. She disciplines her eyes to stay fixed on the window until the meeting ends with the chairman's sharp gavel strike, and looking back over watches as he and Christopher rise as one. After sharing a private word Branson departs alone, making her decision all that much easier when Christopher asks her to lunch.

"I skipped breakfast and so I am rather hungry." She smiles. "Lunch sounds wonderful!"

Together they leave the building and walk side by side along the busy thoroughfare to one of the budding high-end bistros. She met him at one or another fund-raising function, and rather than nodding and yawning and moving on after having been introduced, became instantly drawn to her passion for the Hospital, and consequently her new partner in crime. She has found him to be, in the last half year she has known him, uncompromisingly generous. An eager wallet opens whenever and wherever it is needed, most especially when it is at Sybil's behest. And with so much in common their small talk is nice and companionable, only occasionally running dry.

"And what about the buses?" he asks.

"I've found a company who will let them out at a discount. We'll get it for half the price."

"Splendid! Then we won't have to worry about next winter's coats."

"Is there anything else?"

"Not that I can think. Except that if I haven't mentioned it already – you looked lovely last night."

She smiles. "Thank you." Then smiles again. In fact she always smiles when she is with Christopher. It is impossible not to do so, for he is the type of person that makes one smile when one is with him. And although he ignites none of the broiling passions, she is now thirty, and feels she is fairly gone beyond that stage anyway. And besides that he is good and kind, careful and conscientious, a man who will make some woman a happy wife one day.

They walk in companionable silence till they arrive and the host seats them. They are brought strong tea and sweet biscuits, and handed elegant menus. He is pursuing his when she steels herself, then says lightly, "So your reporter's come at last."

"Yes." He laughs and sets the menu aside. "It's been something of an experience, having this shadow cataloging my every mood. And all the questions!" He shakes his head as if trying to fathom the lunacy of it all, then calmly sips at his tea. "But he seems a good fellow. Smart, I think, but possessed of more than a few odd views."

Her frown is hidden by the menu. "Not _very_ odd?"

"No, not _very_," he chuckles. "But his first night here he told me he didn't believe in God. Not something I expected to hear from an Irishman, I must say." He takes another sip, this one longer than what seems necessary. "But I suppose you might have already know that. He told me you two were acquainted," he says a little too offhandedly.

Sybil clears her throat. She puts down her menu and smiles. "Yes. He was our family driver, from years ago." She stops to take a drink. "I haven't seen him in ages. When I saw him at the party I was..." She searches for the word, heart racing. "Shocked."

Christopher's hands fold together, and his smile is placid enough when he says, "Yes. I suppose you weren't expecting him to reappear, and in that capacity?"

"You mean as a journalist?"

He inclines his head. "As journalist, as a guest at a charity ball. I know if my childhood chauffeur showed up unexpectedly as a guest of a peer I'd be shocked as well."

Sybil's mouth opens, then closes. Then opens again as she says, "Well, I wasn't a _child_ when he worked for my family. And when he left I assumed he would –" She stops, angling her head as she watches a pram stroll by. "How long is he going to be here?" she asks reaching for her cup.

"Only this week. He leaves on Monday, I believe." The waitress comes and takes their order, and when she leaves he continues: "Friday we've made plans to visit Camsbury House, just to give him an idea of the estate and what types of changes I'll be implementing." He looks inquiringly at her. "You've never been, have you?"

The old barriers quickly rebuild. "Been where?"

"To Camsbury," he says with a small smile, and a pair of unconvinced eyes.

"Oh, yes!" she laughs. "Of course. Um, no. No, I don't believe I have. Actually, I don't think I've ever set foot in Kent. We were to go to Dover, once, when I was twelve, but Mama caught the flu."

"Then would you like to come?" Her face and mouth work together to form the beginnings of apparent protest. "Now before you say no," he says, raising a hand, "it won't just be Tom and myself. I've invited Gloria along, and I've arranged for a few outings, as well – just a daytrip, really – I'll even pay for the fare!" His eyes dance. "Consider it your birthday present."

She looks sidelong as the corners of her mouth unwilling lift. "But you've already given me one."

He leans forward with a warm grin. "And did you like them?"

"I've had them put up in the parlor, and I've had nothing but compliments. Even Mary likes them, and you know how hard her approval is won."

"Well. I'm glad they were a success." After a moment of quiet he asks, "So will you join us?"

"I am rather busy..."

"Of course if you're schedule doesn't allow...but I would very much like you to see it."

He may as well propose on the spot, she thinks, for there is no doubt that he hopes her journey there will be one of approbation for her future home. Yet whether or not she will one day be Christopher's happy one is a mystery she cannot divine. Much like the battlefield, she thinks, where one can be never tell what their mettle will be in the deciding moment.

She picks up her cup for the last swallow, feeling the tension of the quandary, refusing this man for the sake of another, or vice versa, a tumbleweed of confused emotion wuthering inside of her, and she's not sure for which man's sake she should make her decision, to avoid both or to see both, until in the back of her mind comes a command strong and sharp, Mary's voice guiding her:

_Closure._

She sets down her teacup with a clank. What does not kill us makes us stronger. And so it is only for her own sake that she answers:

"Yes."

And then prays that it won't kill her.

* * *

_Thanks for reading!_


	4. Chapter 4: Perjury

_Thanks to everyone who has been reading and reviewing! I've really enjoyed reading the comments and people's thoughts. Also another thanks to Mrstater for betaing this chapter and all her wonderful insights. This chapter was particularly difficult and she really helped me iron out the direction of some of the sections. Nothing else really to say, except if you want to hear the song that appears in this chapter you can search on youtube for Paul Whiteman's "Wonderful One."_

* * *

_There shall always be those infrequent and momentous turning points in a man's life, the ones which, when they occur, will render him unable to ever forget his exact position in the universe. Summer of 1914 – the smell of freshly cut grass, the latent warmth of a hand within his – an announcement of war that would lead to millions of corpses. Easter Monday, 1916 – the last of the Simnel cakes apportioned and consumed, nutty sweetness dissolving on his tongue with Daisy to his left shucking snap peas – and the first of the telegrams arrive._

_Carson hands him the correspondence with as much gravity as he performs any task –"For you, Mr. Branson," in deep, theatrical tones, and then bypassess the confused chauffeur to amble on with his day. The bike messenger is already half way back down the park and unavailable for questioning as Branson unfolds the missive with a frown, reads the three succinct lines, and turns ashen._

_The world's axis has just shifted – but not for anyone else, the whole of the hall continuing with their miniscule talk and duties without abeyance. Only Daisy is close enough or perceptive enough to notice the way his mind seems to be quaking, and the only one who watches him leave._

_But news travels quickly in the insular habitat of manor life, and by noon everyone downstairs is whispering and wondering, gossip spreading thick as clotted cream in the corridors, and just as delicious. _

"_The whole city in flames."_

"_Well it won't be taken lying down! They'll get what's theirs, just as soon as the swaddies show up."_

"_I'll thank you not to speak another word on this highly inappropriate matter," Carson will be forced to say during dinner, or at least he Branson imagines it so over the untouched plate in his cottage._

_And then one by one each member of the family, seemingly on an unsourced whim, the type which infects all of their decision making, declare they don't really need the use of the motor today after all. _

"_That errand can surely wait till tomorrow." _

"_I'm not very much in the mood for dinner at the Big House." _

"_A nice day for walking," Lady Grantham will be saying over tea, the girls all nodding along gamely, and Sybil perhaps wondering why no one ever says what they mean._

_He doesn't ask permission to go down to the village that day, or the next day after, to wait impatiently in the long queue of pushing, anxious emigrants, and he is not rebuked when he comes back late into the evenings, and as silent as anyone in that house has ever heard._

_Not that there is much for him to say, when all week long no one dares anything, not even a suggestion, least of all a comfort. And what could they say, he wonders. What cordial could be offered that would douse the flames that burn at this heart, and the home where it resides? And so they scuttle along their business that day, and the next day after, each face banishing his existence for the sake of its own convenience. _

_His social quarantine finally lifts at the end of the week, when the insurrection is put down and its perpetrators arrested, by Sybil toeing timidly into the garage, visibly afflicted – the most honest face he has seen all week, and even hers bears the creases of caution, mouth guarded like a bulwark, murmuring only a quarter of what she means._

"_I read the news," she says._

_He flips a page in his newspaper. "Yes."_

_They are silent for awhile. Then, abruptly – "Papa calls it treason!"_

_The words are almost thrown out: "Of course he does!" Then a retraction of sorts as he remembers himself: "I don't think you should tell me what he says," stiffly and properly as befitting his role, and he goes back to his paper._

_But Sybil will have none of it. "But why not?" she asks in her most familiar way. She steps up close to him and throws up her arms. "Because he's my father? Because you work for him?" She pauses. "Because you're his _driver_?"_

"_Because it's not my concern what he thinks, and it's not your place to tell me."_

"_Then what is my place, if not to –?" She stops on a dime as his eyes grow earnest, willing her to submit to her usual complaint after a boring dinner: _Why can't people simply say what they mean!_ She deviates: "I'm sorry. I didn't come here to quarrel." And then graces him with a long look from those big, beautiful eyes. "You must be upset." She looks upset. On the verge of tears, if he can think such a thing is possible. "And what I really came here to say was – I hope – I _do_ hope – that everything is all right?" That English circumvention that so tires him has once again robbed their conversation of the specifics. "Your family?" she edges in without quite hitting the mark._

_But for all that her concern is shrouded in generalities he is still thankful for it. _

"_They're all fine."_

_His response acts as a touchstone for her smile. "I'm so glad." _

_And she looks glad. Relieved and glad, every detail in her face an honest correspondence – and he had lied. Lied through his teeth, for they are not all fine. One of them is dead. Two more a widow and an orphan. And all the rest in mourning, frocks and suits and hats of black, the blackest of black for the murder that will forever be engraved on the record books in cold hard ink as collateral._

_And he had lied, but not for the first time, nor indeed for the last, for there are a thousand truths he keeps drummed up inside, truths that he knows she does not need or want to hear. And so for now all he will say is:_

"_Thank you. For asking after me."_

_And then take her smile too close to heart, covet her close presence a little too strongly, and let the fondness in her eyes chisel more deeply into the spider cracks formed across the dam in his heart, a dwindling countdown for the truth to unleash._

**Perjury**

Thursday morning Branson wakes to a pounding in his head and a pounding on his door, a loudly barked insistence that he please come down and take an urgent call at the reception desk. The curtains are drawn, sharp pieces of sun eking their way around the edges which his maladjusted eyes have no desire to suffer prematurely, and he dresses and readies in the brownish gloom of muffled daylight.

The receptionist sweeps the floor – a polite enough distance away but still within the busybody range of earshot – when he reaches the phone and brings the receiver to his ear. As par for the course Charlie eschews any niceties, opening with, "What's the status, Tom?"

Branson frowns into the line. "They told me this was urgent."

"I'm your boss, I decide what's urgent. Now, how is everything coming along?"

Branson closes his eyes, pinches near the bridge of his nose. Unbeknownst stands the towering conflict that has taken away all perspective for his supposedly unbiased article, but –

"Without a hitch," he says.

"Good." Charlie pauses on a low grunt. "And remember to mind your budget. We're not reimbursing anything that comes out of your own pocket."

"Do you ever?"

"And hire out a photographer to snap a few pictures of Christopher, maybe at his London home – or better yet, down in Kent."

"I can do that."

"And I want you to start on with a draft as early as you can – today."

"All right, then."

"And have the whole thing finished by Saturday so we can squeeze it into the Sunday morning edition."

The last part shocks Branson out of his mindless nodding, his mouth agape. He assumes Charlie had tried to slide it in there, drop the bombshell with all his casual aplomb, as if everyone should be as unaffected by the flying shrapnel as he. "That's the first I've heard of this!"

"A change of plans," Charlie replies, a shrug in his voice.

"I won't have time for it," he argues. "That's a tall order you're asking, and all of tomorrow will be taken up by the trip out to Kent. Why not save it for Sunday the week after? What's the rush?"

"It's just the timing of it. This Sunday's when we've scheduled it in; the pages have already been cleared and we've got nothing to put in its place."

"You're not leaving me with a lot of room, here!"

"So start an outline now, and hammer in the details Friday night!" Branson hears the clamor in the background, the bang of a desk, the clatter of the fallout, and then Charlie heaving a tired sigh. "Look, Tom, you've done how many articles in a pinch? You'll do this one more, and then you'll have nothing hanging over you when you come back Monday morning." Steaming silence answers him, and he offers a consolation: "Why not consider Sunday a free day to do whatever you like?"

"Except anything that'll cost money?"

"That should go without saying," he says with a short laugh. "And you can come back early, if you like. Take a day here. We'll even pay you for it!"

For all the time he puts in they pay him a pittance as it is, and Branson, sensing he's being fed only half the story, and refusing to be mollified, mumbles a brusque reply, not quite slamming the phone but startling the receptionist who has covertly sidled up nearly next to him. He casts her, the ever present ear at the door, a wilting look, scurrying her away with visible shame as he glances at the clock – quarter to nine. He heads out for a makeshift breakfast, the nearest vendor selling the cheapest fare, a large carafe of coffee which he pours into a smudged glass provided by the hotel clerk, and by nine thirty he has begun.

He spends the next few hours going through the majority of his notes, rereading, cataloguing, annotating, rereading again, splaying them on the desk in organized layers, and then starts in on a skeletal draft. And while his penmanship under normal circumstances is good – neat and precise, lacking in flare, perhaps, but distinctive enough for recognition – as he begins parsing through the notes taken at yesterday morning's charity meeting he must squint at the wobbly script tapering off to nothing, as if he was writing without watching – or at least not watching what he was writing – and finds that only one quarter of it is usable.

After breakfast is consumed and metabolized he sustains himself through the process with the closest thing on hand, the empty calories of a slowly nursed glass of watered down scotch from the night before – hell in a bottle, or so Mam used to say while giving that rare misty-eyed look, tinged with bitterness by the moue in her mouth, as if she could taste the sour liquid on the drunk kisses of his father. She'd have mightily preferred if he and his siblings had abstained their way through life, conducted a pious avoidance of any and all of the declensions, especially the drink, any fumelike breath earning a sharp – _A man takes a drink; the drink takes a drink; the drink takes the man – _and the scourge of her disappointment. And while she hadn't been overjoyed by his removal to Yorkshire all those years ago, she was proud of the upward projection in her son's life; but little could she have known that he was packing off to his ruin, taken not by drink but that other influence with the power to undo a man. And whenever he visits home she looks for it, the vice that keeps him just this side of haggard, wondering what, why and how, perhaps even sometimes who, for there is never anything on his breath but the absence of the joy that used to alight every facet.

Thoughts of his mother have always been linked with food, and suddenly he becomes aware of the mewling pangs in his stomach. Another glance at the clock alerts him that it is a quarter past one. He realizes he'd skipped lunch, and with his progress almost nowhere he puts down his pen and descends back to the lobby where the receptionist still can't look him in the eye, simply hands him the phone, her nose too busy scrutinizing the guestbook. He rings up Christopher, asking him to change out their dinner meeting for a lunch so he can spend the evening hours, his best hours, working, and they are just settled into his club's dining room, first bite of roast lamb in Branson's mouth when Christopher gets a museful gleam in his eyes.

"I do find it rather strange, though, your connection to Lady Sybil. I'm always hearing how small a place the world is, but I never imagined." A lofty hand raises his wineglass, whirlpooling the liquid inside. "You knew her before the war, yes?"

Branson puts down his fork, the thought of eating suddenly unappetizing. _Lady Sybil_. She is Christopher's favorite topic of conversation, and though Branson will never be inured to the casual use of her name, the long and chronically aching years have at least calloused over the most vulnerable parts of his features.

"Yes. I left my old post in Ireland and came to Downton in 1913."

"I have wondered..." he drawls. Christopher's face usually contains a kind of easy pliability, but it softens even more, as shapeless clouds in its dreaminess. "Tell me, what was she like as a young woman?"

Branson keeps a level stare. Indignation would be uncalled for, but he can't help himself:

"She's still _young_."

But Christopher appears to be in particularly fine form, an unrufflable mood, and he simply smiles, takes a sip, savors, and swallows. "You're right, of course. A younger woman, then. And I only ask because I have a few recollections I want expounded on, if you're able?" Branson nods. "I remember hearing some rounds of gossip back when I was a young man." He laughs. "A _younger_ man. This was before I met her, of course. Something about pantaloons in the drawing room...?"

Branson tries, but his mouth begins to tug. "Well, there it is. You've got your answer. She once wore pantaloons to dinner. She would sneak out of the house. She was...unpredictable." He shakes his head with a loose sort of laughter. "She liked to test limits, especially her parents'." He shrugs. He's lost this round, and lets go of the evidently fond smile. "She was fun."

"That's exactly how I pictured her. Full of life and fire, and always getting into a bit of mischief, I imagine?" And Branson loses his smile, because Christopher's eyes lacquer over as if he is imagining at this very moment – Sybil, perhaps, spicing up the halls of his own dull country seat.

He looks off to the side. "The truth is I really shouldn't be talking about it."

"I suppose you're right. Discretion, yes? The hallmark of the good servant." He tips his glass. "And I suppose of the good reporter as well."

"Well, that all depends on the context," he replies, pleased at finally having a conversation he can sink his teeth into. "We want the truth to out but we don't want to do any harm in the process, at least where it's undeserved. We want to protect where we can, and sometimes that means hiding certain bits of information."

"Well. I shall give you full marks for both your occupations – I couldn't do it. I wouldn't be able to live a life of facade, always dealing with half-truths."

"Maybe. But half the truth is better than none, and it's still not quite like lying."

"Define a lie?" Christopher's head tilts, his eyes alive. "The obvious, of course, it to speak what is untrue. But there is also what goes unsaid, those lies of omission."

And perhaps it is only Branson's mind taking a turn for the fanciful – But do his eyes pierce? Does his face grow drawn in a silent reprimand? Branson has no idea what type of conclusions the man has made concerning his reporter and his Lady, if he has sensed that he is being fed only half the story, the thousand truths that Branson has omitted: How he had arrived to an empty room, vanquished and distraught, no one waiting up for him to ease his distress save half a bottle of cheap scotch. How he spends his nights trying to forget that she is not married, and he not even attached, drinking himself to sleep. How for the last seven years he's felt ripped in half, every step he takes dragging the past like heavy chains behind him.

He leaves lunch shaken, and tries to reopen his mind into getting the bare bones of his draft fleshed out. The desk in the hotel is quite small, but comfortable enough for one. Compact yet suitable – his preference – the overly large having the penchant to unnerve him. And the hall outside is noisy. Babies wailing. The thud of feet flying up and down the floorboards. Loud and boorish, a distraction for some but for him a natural barricade that he has come over the desultory years to rely upon, to crave, more and louder - enough to rival the big bands on opening night.

A small desk in a busy hotel – he could very well be back in his Dublin office for all the requirements of productivity, and yet half a minute cannot go by without his thoughts rabbit trailing, the last words over lunch springing back into his mind:

"_Lady Sybil's coming with us?"_

_Christopher stops, then looks confused, for he'd uttered that small and inconsequential factoid a good two minutes before, when he had begun rattling off about tomorrow's sojourn to his estate. "You don't mind, do you? She's never been so I've asked her to join us. And seeing as how you two are already acquainted..." His eyes grow wary in their concern. "You don't mind?"_

_Branson shrugs, lips to his glass. "Why would I mind?"_

So long it's been. So much there is to talk about. He once feared he would never get the chance, and now chance has smiled upon him, proffered him this gift in the hands of the enemy.

But no – Christopher is not his enemy. He's no longer a claimant to her affection, any court of law would have judged him unfit for the role when he fled in fit of pique over seven years ago. And so he's made his bed and he can no longer continue to let her into it, for if she conquers this – his work, his passion – his last battle ground standing after so many years of loss – it might occur to him with every jotted sentence that he's writing out a modern day fairy tale for his prince, that in time he'll claim his princess and take her back to his castle, the one he's visiting tomorrow, to fawn and compliment and wish him well in life, his Sybil at his side.

The last of the scotch is gone, and Branson looks down to his draft. There on that small, comfortable desk lie the fruits of his labor: six pages of writing, but only a smattering of paragraphs that bear any hint of his assignment. The rest of it – long, dribbling sentences with no beginning and no end, verses on the cruelty undying love. Spare sketches of her face at midnight, in the light of an upcoming country day.

And thinks that tomorrow lightning had better strike him with inspiration, or it may as well strike him dead, and he's not sure which fate he hopes for as he shuts off the lights and climbs fully clothed into bed.

* * *

The party convenes upon the Friday morning rush hour at King's Cross and, true to his word, Christopher has paid for her fare.

His brown trilby moves like a fish out of water amidst the sea of drab commuter fedoras, a splash of the opulent striding eagerly towards her. "Lady Sybil! As promised!" He delivers with fanfare. "Your ticket!" he cries, and her heart does stop for a beat at the transporting words, her eyes sweeping askance to see if the one standing a few paces beyond has overheard them, and in his unblinking gaze, cast intentionally towards her, she believes she can hear him thinking aloud – _he is your ticket_.

But she is not boarding a train to a new life. Rather, she will admit, she boards it to canvass out a possible future, one which bears a disconcerting resemblance to her past, that ancient lifestyle she has tried and failed to outgrow with the comprehension that her sense of self, those youthful yearnings for adventure, had been quashed somewhere in between tickets and promises.

_Closure_.

A sharp whistle punctuates the thought, and then she hears Gloria, the fourth in their party – "my second visit to the estate" – mentioned to Branson who nods with an interested smile. "I'm something of an orphan, you see. My parents have abandoned me in service to their Country – Hong Kong for the next two years!" Gloria laughs and casts her a smile which she returns without hesitance. "But Sybil and Christopher have determined to take me in. And who could ask for a better pair of caretakers?"

They board the train, all of them cramming into a private car in first class. Christopher sits beside her; the other two sit opposite, the large gap erecting a sort of natural partition between. The interior is a trifle stuffy with summer's humidity in full swing, but the train whistle blows and the wheels turn, the movement invigorates her and Christopher's company has always been pleasant. And for the first half of the journey she is enrapt by his sole conversation, has hardly even noticed the way Gloria fawns shamelessly over Branson, or their prolonged and easy discourse. How quickly his smiles come when they are directed at her, or how she chatters with becoming laughter in her eyes. How well they seem to get on.

"Lady Sybil?" She turns to Christopher. She cannot remember the last word he said, or how long ago he had said it. "Yes!" she says, an answer and a question both, a meager attempt to cover.

Christopher does not appear fooled. "I was asking after tomorrow's rally. Were you planning on attending?"

"I believe so. I don't have any other plans, and I promised –"

"And I'm going with her!" Gloria interjects with a shrieking laugh. She turns to Branson. "Sybil's taken me under her wing, you see, thinks I've got the makings of a real suffragette!" She holds her head up high, chin out, a little smirk of triumph at play. She is young, only a few years past her debut, and for some reason seems to esteem Sybil's regard. A creature of the times, she had shorn her hair six months ago out of a defiant zeal after a row with her parents, a wild tuft of blonde that does not very much suit her. But her posture does it justice, the careless way she maneuvers her long joints and limbs, sharp elbows and a pair of sinewy legs that she crosses with a lazy sort of confidence.

"Does she?" Branson asks, his face turned towards Gloria but his eyes on her, and so she can't make out for whom his small, amused smile is intended.

Sybil smiles tightly, clenching a fistful of green-checkered fabric in her lap. "She does." After that initial, palpitating meeting she hoped the worst was done with. And though now proven wrong and smarting for her naiveté, after so many years she has at least learned to cloak her wounds with the bandages of indifference. "Or she _would_, if she didn't keep skipping out on doing the work of a suffragette."

"It was only twice," Gloria says, whipping her head towards Branson. She grins. "And of course she's never let me forget it!"

"The only two times you ever committed, yes?" Christopher says with a slight chuckle.

She tosses her back her head with a laugh. "Well now I've been caught! But I won't disappoint you this time, Sybil – I _shall_ be there."

Sybil relaxes her smile and her grip. Still just a baby, she thinks, then feels guilty for it, admonishes herself that she is beginning to sound just like Mary, and then feels guilty for _that_. "Gloria is a very great help at the hospital," she says to Branson. "Really, she's there as often as I am, and the children love her. But she is _not_ an early riser." She cocks an eyebrow. "Nine o'clock, Gloria. And wear something _practical_. It'll be a long morning on our feet."

"Well, you know me, so you know I won't make any promises." She gives a cheeky grin to her side-partner. "If I'm to be fashionably late I may as well look fashionable while doing it."

"But I don't think practical has to mean ugly," he replies. "Or unfashionable," he adds, with a nod towards Sybil, gussied up in a wide brimmed hat and a pair of sturdy walking shoes. "Wouldn't you say so, Lady Sybil?"

_Please don't make fun of me. _Sybil stops up her throat, swallows before saying, "Are you asking me if I think my outfit is ugly?" with an upturned nose. She receives a budding satisfaction in his creeping smile, and his mouth opens to say more. But he is balked by an outburst from Gloria:

"Of course it's not!" She bats at his arm. "Sybil always dresses rather well – she's _very _modern."

She raises a shoulder. "I try."

"And you succeed," Christopher says with a warm smile.

"_Mostly_." Gloria points a finger across. "But you still won't wear lipstick!"

Sybil laughs. "There are some trends that aren't meant to be followed." She appeases Gloria's blooming pout with a raised hand. "At least by me."

"Well, I don't see the harm in it." She leans into Branson, plumping her lips. "Tell me, Mr. Branson, what do you think of my shade? – and be honest!"

Once upon a time he had confessed to Sybil that he did not like makeup. Now it's, "I think it suits you," and a smile.

The conversations retreat as Christopher reclaims her attention and Gloria laughs again near Branson's ear. Young and silly – but she blows away dullness in the car with that winsome laugh, whitewashes the dark paneling with her vibrancy. And had she ever been such a bright young thing? Sybil wonders to herself, looking on with envy.

* * *

The train takes another hour to reach Tonbridge. Christopher's chauffeur stands waiting for them at the station, and it jars Branson to think that this is the first time he will be driven about by an actual, liveried chauffeur – a testament, perhaps, to how far he has come, though underwritten with the acute depressor that as a chauffeur he had seen her every day, and as _Tom Branson, Reporter_, he sees her never.

The four of them clamor into the plush seats, Sybil and Christopher beside each other once again, as if conjoined, and from there drive east into the countryside, half an hour until they pull into Camsbury's park gates, and after the butler allows them entrance through the fortress of a door, Christopher points up to the ferocious chandelier which dwarfs the rest of the foyer.

"_That_ was installed in the 16th century."

"Impressive," Branson replies. His first thought is that there's no good reason it hasn't been torn down by the 20th, save for those antiquated allegiances to tradition. But the remainder of his strictures go unsung, evaporating in a flash of cotton twill against his hand – Sybil brushing too closely beside him, intent on reaching a blown glass vase displayed on a console on the far wall.

"White roses!" She twists her head over her shoulder to smile at Christopher, then leans forward into them. "Were these just cut today?"

Christopher saunters over to her, his hands laced behind his back. "I telephoned the request in this morning. I remembered how much you liked them and hoped it would make for a nice welcome."

"They're lovely. Thank you." She leans down to smell them again. "And so thoughtful," she murmurs into the petals.

He does not think his memory has slipped so much to disremember that afternoon she had told him she disliked the austerity of arrangements, that she would vastly prefer a simple potted daisy. But he can't be certain, not after all this time, and not with Gloria whispering in his ear: "Oh, just look at them! Isn't it marvelous?"

The housekeeper descends in a flurry of petticoated skirt. She gives a mighty greeting to her intermittent master, then recites for everyone's benefit the day's arrangements. They have a full itinerary awaiting them, the first order of business a tour of the home, followed by a cold lunch.

"This is, after all, a work trip," Christopher tells the rest with a nod towards Branson.

"I don't know about all of _you_," Gloria says, "but I am _not_ here for work."

"Then what are you here for?" Sybil asks. Branson watches her keenly. He thinks it might be a jab. He tries not to think it is a jab for his sake, though he will not deny the spreading warmth in his heart at the unthought conjecture.

But Sybil deflates his rising hopes with a smile, and Gloria's ensuing mirthful laughter snuffs it out altogether. "The company, silly!" Gloris cries, and then the ladies link arms, moving off together.

Christopher and he walk side by side down the corridors, peeking their heads inside pre-selected rooms, inspecting the prize antiques, hard backed and knobby chairs from the time of the Conqueror, faded Elizabethan tapestries. "These days the house is rarely lived in." Christopher says this as if it were a tragedy. "With father and me living almost exclusively in London, I sometimes fear we neglect our duty here."

Dutiful is not a word Branson would ever use in conjunction with the inanimate. People and lives, blood and tears, these are what incur his sense of duty. Yet the sentiment does not go unappreciated: "But you manage to keep it up," he replies. They are in the gallery, heads tilted upwards to behold the Lord Sheffields of yore.

"I do what I can from a distance. But the house and grounds are primarily maintained by my steward, and there can never be a proper substitute for the oversight of an owner."

They eventually come underneath a portrait in full-length. "My grandfather," Christopher says, pointing to the balding, pompous looking gentleman, a typical subject for the pasquinades published in Branson's paper. But whatever their look, they must have done something right, Branson concedes. The place still stands erect through the vertigoes of its life, all four hundred years of them, within the last ten outfitted with all the modern accouterments: gas powered stoves, central air, en suite bathrooms in the family wing.

Christopher explains all of the upgrades with enthusiasm, but though contemporary in amenities the decor is still very much Victorian, that apprehension of too much lace and ceremony.

"I'll admit it needs a woman's touch," he has the gall to say in one outdated parlor. Branson notices Sybil's back straighten in her refractory way, anticipates the fiery reproach.

"It's rather ghastly, I won't deny it," she says, Gloria at her elbow and whispering too loudly:

"It needs all the help it can get. And never too soon to be getting ideas!" which elicits from Sybil an unfathomable smile.

Afterwards they sup on lounge chairs in an airy drawing room facing west made picturesque by the wall of large, rectangular windows. When the meal concludes they spend a moment to digest and dawdle. He smokes a cigarette while reclining in his chair, aware of Sybil fondling the collection of frames sitting on the sofa table as Christopher introduces her to the faces.

Gloria reappears suddenly. He had not noticed she was missing.

"Gloria?" Christopher's frame pops up from where it was stooping. "What have you got there?"

"Now, don't be cross, but I've been snooping." She walks to the corner of the room while presenting a thin, unmarked disc. "I'd no idea you actually owned records, Christopher. This silly thing is always sitting here empty, doing nothing but collecting dust." She blows on the spotless gramophone for good effect before lodging in the record and lowering the needle. The music scratches to a start, low, muted brass swelling to diapason as Gloria's eyes round with joy and surprise. "Paul Whiteman! I never would have thought if of you, Christopher!"

He chuckles. "And what have you thought of me?"

"Oh, something stuffy and old. Vivaldi. Mozart." She laughs as if she had made a great joke. "I had the most horrid music instructor – he said I was a lost cause and then quit without notice. Mama believed him and so never hired another." She begins moving towards Branson, swaying on the balls of her feet – "Do you know the words?" – lightly singing when the melody repeats:

_Awake or sleeping  
My heart's in your keeping  
And calling to you soft and low_

He shakes his head. "I've never heard this song." He has heard this song a hundred times, a favorite in every pub. And he wonders when the lies learned to slip so easily, when he had stopped saying what he means.

Christopher resumes his conversation with Sybil. They speak low and intimately, as if unmindful of those who watch them.

_My wonderful one  
How my arms ache to hold, dear  
To cuddle and fold you to me_

Gloria's voice is passable and not unpleasant, but she hovers too close. _A dime a dozen_ had been Branson's preeminent thought, and then he had chastised himself for being unfair, as she had been wont to do in the past, determining to make the effort for her sake, which he feels he may have outperformed – not that it matters when she has eyes for only one.

Gloria tugs on his arm. Her exuberance is trying. "Come, Mr. Branson! Won't you dance with me?"

He does not submit to budge and lets his arm slip through her grasp, shaking his head again. "I don't dance." That one is true, and a small part of him hopes he is proving to be a disappointment, his perfunctory rejections, the way he is looking past her to where Christopher has once again spoken to Sybil in a way that earns her smile, pulling her away towards the northern door. And she led along willingly, with compliancy and a timid blush. And what has become of the rebellious youngest daughter, the nightingale that could not be caged? Who is this smiling, proper creature? This _Lady_?

"Don't be silly. _Everyone_ dances!"

He won't dawdle on the condemning probability that he was the hand that clipped her wings, simply takes a drag, one deep with resignation as he lets them go, lets them disappear together, her laughter echoing from somewhere beyond the door, and Gloria humming through the words she can't remember as she finishes the final verse:

_There's none like you, I adore you  
My life I'll live for you,  
Oh, my wonderful, wonderful one_

* * *

The sun is at its peak by the time they drive out to tour a few of the more successful farms. Christopher excitedly points out machinery and throws out bewildering jargon with gusto, and afterwards they stroll along the outer perimeter of the park to inspect the newly refurbished cottages. From their vantage point they can view the fullness of Camsbury, all of its lush nine thousand acres, more sprawling than Downton and a touch less imposing. Instead of sharp spires which puncture the sky and are prone to make one prepare for battle, the high rooftops slope downward in creation of an inviting aspect.

Sybil breathes in the clear sky and wide open spaces that can make one believe anything is possible if you simply run fast enough. She used to feel this way back at Downton, back before the war, when the isolation felt as a kind of freedom, a facade of privacy where nothing could be seen and therefore nothing judged.

Now everything feels judged, the men lagging behind and privy to any word or deed, each of her faculties alive to the eyes at her back, of Branson walking with his notebook out as Christopher talks him through the history of the lands and title, which she strains to hear over Gloria's prattle.

"The Barony was bestowed by Edward the fourth, to the first Baron Sheffield."

"Bravery in the war of Roses?"

"Close." She wonders if that is amusement she hears in Christopher's voice. "Exemplary service by way of tax collection."

"You're right. It is close. If they can't kill you with the sword then they'll do it with parchment."

She bites her lip with a smile. She does not need to wonder over what she hears in Branson's voice. Years ago she was fluent in all the intonations heard within, and like muscle memory, the longer she is in his presence, flexing her ears to the graceful patterns in his speech, the more she becomes attuned to every nuance, the more it begins to feel like 1919 – and had their minds ever once existed in such harmonious accord? It seems impossible to think so now, even more impossible to think that anything might remain of their former perfect pitch.

But she's learned to be wary of impossibilities. She's not here for a resurrection, she's here for facts, to observe, to determine – to find _closure _– and through it to decide her future_. _A private word may be just the final nail she needs to bury the past, and her chance, or perhaps mischance, arrives with the photographer Branson had hired from Tonbridge, a large camera case in one hand and a tripod balancing on the shoulder opposite.

He obliges Gloria the group photo she begs him for, then teaches everyone the importance of perspective and lighting, trooping them out to a sloping ledge over which he positions Christopher, the backdrop of the house set to good advantage to his back, the slanting sun in his face. The remaining trio watch from a distance, and after a few minutes Gloria loudly announces that she won't tolerate being excluded from the excitement of a _real live photo-shoot_, and willingly embraces the pinnacle of the day's heat, high-stepping over the grass as she clutches down on her white cloche hat.

And so three becomes two, and they are left to themselves, yards enough away to hear only the occasional burst of high laughter drifting from Gloria, conspicuous under their copse of trees that provide shade from the sweltering sun.

For a long while they do nothing but stand and watch. Movement seems hazardous, to say nothing of words, the space and silence between them fraught, and not only for the occasional backwards looks and glances, the waves as those of small children beckoning an audience. Custom dictates he speak first, and she grows more anxious with every silent second, and when she worries that the lack of their interaction has reached such a length so as to be construed as noteworthy, he finally speaks.

"So your Foundling Hospital?"

She looks up to him with a jolt, uttering the first thing that tackles her brain. "It's not _mine_."

He seems pleased with her response, at least he smiles when he says, "To hear Christopher talk, it is."

"He's been known to exaggerate." She looks into the ground, resisting the urge to bite her lip. Then she lifts her head back up with a decisive snap. "Well, what about it?"

He shrugs. "What do you do there? And when do you do it? Why is it so special to you?"

"You really are a reporter now, aren't you?" She gives in to the urge and nips a small part of her lower lip, aware of his keen eyes assessing her. "All right. I spend most of my free time volunteering there – about every morning on the weekdays, sometimes the weekends as well. I help with administration, mostly, but I do hands on work with the children as often as I can. I'm not on the board – not yet –"

"Planning the invasion already? You always were ambitious."

"Now _you're_ exaggerating."

They are silent for awhile. Then: "And what do you think about this move to the country?"

"I'm not sure there's anything to think about it." He's never been inscrutable, or subtle, and she casts his smirking face a knowing look. "Not everything has to be an argument, you know."

"I'm not trying to make it an argument. I just want to know where you got the notion to move this century old London establishment out into the wild, saving them from the evils of the city, and all of that."

"I don't know about evils..." She narrows her eyes, mulling over her reply. "But the country is far safer than London. And cheaper." She shrugs. "Those are simple facts."

"Safety is a good consideration. But there are others."

"Such as...?"

"Experience. Knowledge. Culture. Those are the things any person needs for a fulfilling life."

"But we're not speaking of _persons_, in a general sense, we're talking about children, who have already suffered enough for one lifetime. They'll have the rest of their lives for your so-called experience, so why not let them have a time of rest and security before they're thrust out into the world?" She takes a few breaths to calm herself, beat back the throbbing blood. She has not gotten so worked up in years. Then with a collected voice: "It's been a well considered move to provide the children with a better quality of life, and I'm not sure why you're so cynical about it all."

"I'm not." He shifts his weight to the other foot, leaning in. "Look, take them out of the city and you take them away from connections they may need for the future, unless one sleepy village can find jobs for them all." And for a moment she can glimpse that same old earnestness that used to set her on fire, before the spark in his eyes submerges again under the jaded veneer. "That's a simple fact," he says with almost a snap.

A swift half turn and she's facing out towards the photo session, mouth pinched, ending their conversation, for despite all of _what_ _once was_ which hums about him, she's beginning to truly see and hear the discord of what is new and different, the eagerness turned to bitterness, the ideals over ripened, rotted to cynicism.

And though her mind bends towards the thought she won't let herself dwell on how large a part she played in effecting those changes, persuading herself of his contentment with life – after all:

"I've read some of your work, you know."

His eyes looked stunned, whether for what she said or that she is still talking to him at all, she can't say, the rest of his face passive. "Have you?"

"Yes." She looks down at her hands, tapping her fingertips together. "Some of it's very good."

He laughs. "And the rest of it?"

One thing which she will never tell him: the rest of it is very, very good. "You've done very well for yourself."

He shrugs. "I've done all right."

Silence invades as the photo session seems wrap up, and she decides it's high time for some kind of ending.

"When are you leaving?" she asks.

"I was supposed go Monday but there's been a change of plans. Sunday morning is likely." The traveling sun has beaten a path to the pair, and he holds his hand over his forehead in a makeshift brim. "They'll be sure to get a lot of good pictures, with Camsbury in the background, sparkling like that."

"Well, it's a lovely day for it. And it's a lovely house."

"So you like it, then?"

"Camsbury?" He nods. "It's a bit more modernized than Downton, but not as impressive. But then these houses are mostly all the same."

"But do you _like_ it?"

She hesitates long enough to give the impression of consideration. "There's no reason for me not to. And Christopher was very good to invite me." Her eyes narrow. "Why? Do you not like it?"

He smiles. "I hate it."

"That doesn't surprise me. But as a guest of Christopher I find it rather unkind to speak so ill of his home."

"Well I'm not a very kind person. Not like you." He points his chin out. "Or him." He pats at his breast pocket, then reaches inside. Two minutes later he is smoking, another three before he asks, "So do you like it?"

She digs her toe into the ground, as if stamping out something small and unpleasant.

"I'm not sure what you want me to say, exactly."

"It's just a question. Yes or no will do."

A shell begins hardening in her throat, filling with resentment or fear, the obsession that lies in between. "And why have you a right to know, to even ask?" She swallows down hard, stares at him with dry, pained eyes. "You're being awfully pushy, considering."

"I'm sorry." He looks genuinely repentant, arms and hands open to her. "I don't want to make you cross. I only –"

"Only what?"

"I just want to know how you're getting on." And then he looks at her, that longing, broken-eyed look, the look flush with indwelling devotion, and it flashes again, that bit of something, that brief flicker of overwhelming regret – that something she saw at the gala when they had first spoken. And then just like at the gala:

"So there you see it, Camsbury in all its glory!" Christopher's near voice comes upon them loudly, rapidly, sending the last of her emotions scattering. "Tell me: How does it compare to Downton?"

"It's smaller," Branson blurts out. Sybil freezes and stares, as if he has just shattered a wall of glass. "Sorry! Of course he was asking you," he says with a nod towards Sybil, and then with a wave of his hand he seems to have dismissed himself, striding longer and faster till he has left them far behind without a caring or backwards glance.

"It's not _very_ much smaller," Sybil says. Her heart pains with every beat, stomach twisted. "But Downton is rather large, even for its kind." The rote words tumble out easily, yet infinitely more difficult is the task of watching him walk farther and farther ahead, at last coming to stop where Gloria stands heckling the photographer, and who quickly latches on to him.

Christopher inhales a deep breath. "I shall never tire of air in Kent. I presume you must have similar feelings towards Yorkshire. How do you take to country life?"

"I know it. I'm comfortable with it. But I haven't lived in Yorkshire for so long." Not since Branson had lived there, with a girl who used to be her, a girl he once knew but can no longer recognize.

Christopher charges into detail after detail about the further changes he wishes to enact, the life he wishes to make here for himself, etc. She bobs her head with every word, smiling all the way through, for she has perfected the look, after many years of practice, her smile growing more brittle year by year as the plaster hardens.

And yonder all she can see is Branson laughing with Gloria, laughing with ease as one with a guiltless conscious, as if they hadn't just stood trial together. She wonders how it is possible, for guilt has become such a mainstay in her existence, one emotion among many that have tightly wound themselves into the knotted clump that is her feelings. And no matter how often or hard or meticulously she picks and pulls, seven years and counting, the threads have yet to untangle.

She decides it's time to stop being gentle. If she's to clear a path for the rest of her life she'll need to do it not with prodding but with explosives.

"Christopher?"

His stream of chatter dams to a halt. "Yes?"

"Only I was thinking... would you like to take tea with us tomorrow?"

He looks surprised. "At Grantham Place?

"Where else?"

Now he looks pleasantly surprised. "And Lady Mary won't mind?"

"I'm free to invite whoever I like. And I'd like to invite you." She gives him a shy smile. "She wants to meet you, actually."

"So my reputation precedes me?"

"In some circles, it might. At Grantham Place it certainly does."

"Well." He smiles like a cat that's got the cream, clasping his hands behind his back. She's made her catch, and it will be up to her not to throw the fish back. "Then I hope I won't prove a disappointment."

And she hopes that she won't either.

* * *

After three knocks with no response, Mary opens the door.

"Sybil? Are you awake?"

"Yes." She is at the vanity, facing the mirror, hands set into her lap.

Mary eases down onto the bed and begins inspecting the end of her braid. "So. How was it?"

"A day in the country. What's there to tell?"

"Were you able to find what you were looking for?"

"Closure, you mean? Yes. I think I have."

"And?"

"And...he's going to leave on Sunday. And I won't ever see him again."

Mary's teeth begin to flash, the satisfied "good" nearly pushed through them; but then Sybil turns away from the mirror and meets her gaze, on her face not the solace of peace but the weariness of surrender.

Something small and painful stirs within Mary. It's not the broad strokes of agony she had felt during the war, and she realizes that six years of undisturbed happiness with Matthew has made her complacent, dulled her intuition to the turmoil in others. And with the help of a measured pause, her sharp mind slices to the core, revealing that her stirrings are not ones of guilt – never guilt – but empathy, her new sonar for an age when she no longer has the advantage of homology

She walks over and kneels beside Sybil's chair, looking up into her face. "And is that what you want?"

"It's what's going to happen." It's been years since Mary has heard her voice so true, or so lifeless. "We're different people now, Mary. He's moved on. And I..."

"And you?"

"And I'm happy for him."

She withdraws to think for a moment, then looks intently into her sister. "And what of Christopher?"

"Christopher?" Sybil turns back towards the mirror, speaking as though to convince the image of herself. "Tomorrow Christopher is coming to tea."

* * *

_As always thank you so much for reading! I'm sure this is not what most of you were hoping for, but the path can't be too easy for our babies and it will be worth it in the end (I hope, lol)!_


	5. Chapter 5: Machinations

_Sorry for the delay! Real life got the best of me, I'm afraid. Thanks for all the reviews! And once again I have to thank my beta Mrstater, who has been nothing but abundant patience with me and my demands. Also afraidnotscared for taking the time to give me some pertinent feedback._

* * *

_Summer again, and the battles still rage, nothing won or gained, nothing lost or decided, and nothing very much different except that they are both one year older._

_And though every day droops along at a half-crawl, great distances can be traveled given enough time and patience, the journey barely perceptible over the humdrum, until one day raising her head she finds herself miles out from shore. And there from the other side she hears it, that luring call carrying from the sands across the sea – vast flanks of men which with one precise turn outmaneuver the enemy and overturn the outcome – that momentum felt in even farthest Yorkshire, by the girl who can no longer wait patiently, quiet and inert, but must flit to and fro, looking for things to see, searching out things to learn, finding something for her hands to do. Smelling the changes in the air._

_This morning she's decided to ransack his meticulously organized pile of tools. She never bothered before, and it'd be a verbal thrashing for any other person that dared, including Pratt, possibly his Lordship. But done by her the clanking in the background feels almost domestic. _

"_What's this?" she asks, suspending the tool upside down with forefinger and thumb_

_He gives a quick glance up, then goes back to work. "That's a wrench."_

"_I thought _this_ was a wrench."_

_Branson smiles. "That's a socket wrench," he replies without looking. _

_Sybil puts it down with a clatter. She walks over to Branson, hunched elbow deep into the innards of the car, and peers into the copper jungle. "Do you know what I read the other day? That the human brain can only hold so much information, and once it's reached saturation will discard one piece of knowledge for every new one gained."_

"_Is that a subtle way of telling me you don't want me to teach you to drive anymore?"_

"_I'm not the Crawley daughter with a mind for machinery, I'm afraid." She watches as both his hands work in tandem to screw and fasten, his face as stone in its immovable concentration. She tries to track his progress but his tiny, tactical movements are inscrutable. "I would have never thought Edith to be the one to take a fancy to motors. As a child she simply hated anything to do with getting dirty." She leans onto her elbows, idly tapping the tips of her toes behind her. "Does she talk to you much after her lessons?" _

"_Half the time she has me drop her off at the house as soon as we've finished."_

_Sybil's eyes quirk up. "And the other half?"_

"_I shouldn't say," he says evenly, a smile imminent._

"_You and Edith keeping secrets." She shakes her head, pushing herself up. "The world really has gone mad!"_

_He becomes absorbed in a rotary action which severe grinding sets her teeth on edge, and with a final, calculated jerk that seems to satisfy, he rights himself, setting his tool down and reaching for the rag hanging over the rim of the propped open bonnet. "We're keeping it from his Lordship, that's true enough – and at her request." He disabuses her prowling smile with a look. "Keep your tongue on a leash – it's not anything like you're imagining, not even a secret worth sharing." _

_She points out her chin. "So you won't share it?"_

"_If you must know..." He keeps her in suspense with a few moments silence. "I'm teaching Lady Edith how to work on the car. Apparently she's willing to displace something in that brain of hers to fit in a working knowledge of combustion engines, maybe the information about proper etiquette at tea parties."_

"_She's not the only one, you know. Anything proper – the proper way to courtesy, which fork to use – I'd let go of all of that in a shot, and then some." She nods down towards the car. "Just not for _that_."_

"_For what, then?" He regards her intently, twisting the rag over each finger. _

_Hands held behind her back, her shoulders lift as one – "I don't know" – and then she grins: "But when I find it I will."_

_She takes her leave not long after, and he pours over the details, thinks of the girl that once found her way to the garage and the woman that has just now quit it, the way she has grown day by day before his eyes, the slow fermentation of zeal into refined thought. _

_Yet time is deceptive, the years and changes blurring until he sometimes wonders if she ever existed differently to what she is now. Summer days are filling, the busiest time of year, and his itinerary is packed with one Crawley or another and their interminable outings, the time consuming lessons with his protégé's leaden foot. And then one day he looks up and the air is cool with approaching Autumn, and he's listening to her excitement over the concert and planning prizes for the Tombola. And then one day he walks outside and the leaves have all disappeared, and he's listening to complaints over the uselessness of concerts and planning prizes for the Tombola – and all seems natural and congruous._

_And then one day she comes with an excitement unbridled as he's never seen:_

"_Cousin Isobel's secured a place for me in the nursing hospital at York!"_

_Distilled emotion permeates her face – a mosaic of elation, exhilaration; fear and anticipation. "The course starts in one week." She fidgets and bites her lip. "I'm rather nervous!"_

"_How long will you be gone?"_

"_Only two months. But they'll be full, long days. Isobel tells me to expect ten hour courses and all-day clinicals to learn everything I'll need to be a proper VAD. And then I'll come back and work at the village hospital, Doctor Clarkson's already assured me a spot. " She smiles. "A _real_ occupation, with _real_ purpose." Her gaze drifts somewhere far away. "Think of it, Branson."_

_And it's as if someone has thrown a cog into the gears of the clock, freezing that one frame of her face, her glassy-eyed, ponderous smile that stays with him when he watches her splatter tea all over the kitchen or sneak a berry off of the cake she has just pulled out of the oven – _think of it_ – resplendent in a simple frock and the air of achievement – _think of it_ – no longer the naive child but a woman intent on making her own way in the world, in a world of her own making_.

_And he dwells on carpe diem and those simple words – _two months_ – on one hand a trifling separation after a mutual and long withheld understanding, on the other an absence of such length so as to make a good and quiet escape. In short: the perfect opportunity – _think of it.

_The utterance like a lever pulled. And the wheels in his mind begin turning._

**Machinations**

Mid-morning, in the northeast corner of St. James Park, several hundred bodies arc around a high platform, parasols snapped aloft, napes dripping, each part of the whole grappling in their own way with the intense sunlight glaring mercilessly overhead. Set on her tiptoes, Sybil shades her elevated eyes which just manage to skim over the shoulder of the gentleman in front, allowing her line of sight access to the slender podium and the woman standing behind robed in a long dress of white, trimmed in a purple hat and sash, arms raised in conduction of the antiphonal refrain that rises up from the collated voice of the crowd:

_What do we demand?_

_Equal suffrage!_

As in any chorus line the gestures, whether rote or spontaneous, make up half the act, the crowd replete with raised fists and faces of resolve. But the windless day acts as something of a reverse bellows, cooling the passion of the crowd commensurate to the climbing temperature of the bodies, resulting in a simulacrum of occasion: voices loud but muddied, the atmosphere busy yet sodden – the finale performance of a rehearsal gone on too long.

And even Sybil, who has made a lifestyle out of acting, flags by the third speech, her mind counting down the minutes; while bubbling like a wellspring of inner light beside her stands Gloria, bouncing on her toes with a high and boisterous voice that treads above the drowning throng – "Hear, Hear!" – over-applauding at every inserted pause, reveling in the showmanship of such an event; and the thriving pitch in Sybil's ear coloring her mood a shade greener, washing it in blues.

"But have you ever heard anything like it!"

The speaker continues her own rendition of _On Liberty_, fluffed out with bits and pieces of _The Subjugation of Women_. Sybil's mouth goes dry. _Many times. _And she bolsters herself by worrying over the clinical, whether they've drunk enough water to last through this arid morning. "We should get out from under this heat," she murmurs, and not long after the speeches end and the crowds disperse, the two ladies blending into the fading masses.

"Oh, I never minded a little sun," Gloria says as they pass under a spate of shade.

"And what about a lot of sun?" Sybil chuckles.

"Papa used to say I'd stay a spinster for my freckles." She thumbs her nose. "But I think them a small price for such a rousing speech. Truly, I don't think I'll ever get it out of my head; it was positively thrilling!"

Sybil pats her hand. "I knew you'd like it."

"I wonder why I don't listen to you when you're always right. Folly of youth, I suppose – which would make _you_," she digs her index finger into Sybil's arm, "the wisdom of age!" then laughs at her own cleverness.

"How very nice." Sybil raises her brows. "You can write it in on my headstone – which is already on order, in case you're worried."

"Oh, Sybil, you know I don't think you're _old_, but you're not –" She laughs. "You're thirty now," she says with a tossed hand, as if that explains everything. "You've even got the vote, haven't you! You could retire your ribbons, stop melting in the sun every Saturday morning."

Sybil frowns at the word_ retire_. She's on her feet at least twelve hours of the day, and if her movements seem more retiring than her companion's she puts it down to experience more than age. So many decades of being bound by stiff clothing and stiffer customs has birthed an age of females who can't stop moving, dancing, twitching, a cacophony of limbs flying loose with the times. But in this post-corset age Sybil maintains what she feels is the sagely practice of conserving one's energy, and if she will own anything at all it's that she does not feel old so much as spent.

"To hear you talk I could retire my life. Thirty's not that old." Sybil smiles. "In _fact_ –" Now she is the one with a finger sunk into Gloria's arm. "I think my life's barely begun!"

"Now _that_ I will concede as entirely true. I'll never make stipulations on the age of a new bride, and after Friday – " A hand reaches up to smother over her titters. "I've heard it said that life doesn't truly begin until after the wedding night!" Her eyes dare a reproach, mouth quirked with the hope that she's been duly shocking.

Sybil's throat clamps, smile persistent despite the blood quickly seeping, draining her face to a stark white, immutable as lime-bleached stone and a ward against that great enemy of transparency. So many of her greatest exploits done under covert darkness and the thrill of secrecy, and even to this day she abhors exposure, that feeling of frayed skin, every riotous emotion held together by snapping threads and for all the world to see.

Sybil decides the flagrant topic of her future has gone on long enough. She clears her throat. "And what about you?" she says, doing her best not to sound waspish.

But despite the effort Gloria looks a bit stung, and even more confused. "What about me?"

"When will your life truly begin?" Sybil deflects with a smile, an errant, playful tone. "If I recall I wasn't the only one with an admirer on Friday."

For a moment Gloria's look of puzzlement deepens, then her face splits, head lashing back as if she'd smacked her own forehead. "Oh! You mean Mr. Branson?" Then she laughs, carefree and not the least bit smitten or smarted. "Why, he didn't care for me at all! Half the time I talked I don't think he listened to a word I said."

"Really?" Sybil looks down and begins rummaging through her handbag with a sense of urgency.

"Oh, he made all the right noises – men always do. But I could tell. Always looking this way and that – never at me. He was probably too distracted with his assignment, I dare say." She gives an exaggerated shrug. _The foibles of men!_ "I suppose he really was only there for work after all!"

Sybil's eyes stay plastered to the lining of her bag, breath quickening, still searching. For what, she wonders? After the closing arguments made at Kent she doesn't understand why Gloria's assessment should be relayed with anything but apathy, but it splinters through her bones. Only there for work, and tomorrow he will sail away, never to be seen or heard from again. And then she'll go back to her sad collection of articles in the back of her closet, dated and filed countless times over. And once to her great grief and even greater joy they had published a small headshot beside the printed headline, this tear-swept and tattered rendering the only image of him she'll have to mourn once time does its work on her memory.

Sybil shuts her handbag with a snap. There was nothing to find, because there was nothing she needed, and her hands come out empty, Gloria waving down a taxi as she murmurs a belated reply:

"I suppose he was."

The taxi is ordered to drop Gloria off first, and before disembarking she prevails upon the driver to wait. "I'll just run up. It won't be more than a few minutes." She flashes a grin at Sybil. "I've got a surprise for you!" And not more than five minutes later she returns, bending into the backseat as she deposits a pristine white envelope onto Sybil's lap.

Sybil glances down askance. "What's this?"

"I'd tell you, but usually presents are more fun when they're opened first."

Sybil glides her finger under the seal, slips her hand inside to feel a thin, flimsy edge. She pulls it out and stares.

"I paid that photographer to send me a few copies of our picture. A memento of our day. And such a lovely time it was."

The motor drives off and Sybil is halfway back to Grantham Place when she realizes she had forgotten to say thank you, how she had simply stared with something like horror at the very thoughtful gift. But she doesn't order the cab back, lets it putter along while feeling like nothing more than a passenger in her life, which to all appearances travels along with the ease of a well-oiled machine. But inside she feels it, knows well the wrench clogging up the gears:

_I will stay true to you. _

A promise she kept. A promise she does not know why she kept. And worse still: deep down a promise even now she wants to keep. And seven years later, listening to the patterns of her life tick precisely by with one thought, one wish, one prayer cycling in her the back of her mind:

_Wind me back_.

As Sybil stalks up the stares to her room she debates ripping the dreadful thing in half or casting it into the kitchen fire. But spite never had much foothold in her life, and instead she swings open her closet doors, pulls out a drab box from an unkempt corner, and places the photo in the very back of her meticulous collection – a book end of sorts – being careful to avoid the particulars of the image as she does, his far-off and forlorn gaze, perhaps considering his return journey, and her shoulders rubbing against a man she does not love, looking forward to a lifetime queue of flower arrangements she likes even less.

And what an end to their story.

* * *

In Mary's defense, when Sybil first moved to London to live with her and Matthew she'd appeared so put together, shoving herself into occupation after occupation, a high speed gallop of a life whose pace to this day has not diminished. And then George was born. And then William. Motherhood and all its encompassing matters ruled the hour, the late nights, the longer days, the squeeze in her heart when Matthew complains of rug burns after wrestling with the boys, and the running joke about just who took whose name – _the world need not ever know your shame but we'll have to tell the children_ _someday_.

And by the time she had paused long enough to glance up from her own life, six years and three rejected suitors later, only then did she belatedly realize that the creature living under her roof had withered into a mere shade of the Sybil Crawley that had once challenged with chin out, defying convention and them all – _I've decided to marry Tom_ – and while it pained her for a time to know the defeat had happened under her watch, Mary Crawley is one who will set things to right if it is in her power. And that is why she can no longer ignore and let bygones be. And that is why half an hour before tea is served she enters Sybil's room to find her sister primping at the mirror, face marred with creases, hair pulled back taut as if to commandeer her features. That is why she takes a deep breath, reminds herself that fealty often comes with a price, many times one of pride, and says:

"Darling, I'm going to have to impose upon you."

Sybil's back twists in her chair. "Oh?"

"Matthew's acquired tickets to the theatre. A matinee tomorrow at the Prince of Wales."

Sybil returns to her mirror, posing her head every which way so as to view from all angles. "And what's playing?"

"_Lady Be Good_." She fiddles with the long peridot string draped around her neck with the feint of being disobliged. "All I know is that it's some loud and vulgar import from America."

Sybil laughs as she stands. "An American musical. And you said city life wouldn't change you."

"_Matthew_ wants to see it."

"Of course."

"Don't mistake me. If we must, I'd rather Shakespeare or even – God help me – an opera." She shrugs. "But I can understand the draw. A comedy of errors – sounds like a page out of our daily lives, actually."

"Well I'm happy you're getting out, but I don't see how it involves me." She smiles with an arched brow. "Unless Matthew wants company that won't be snappish? It's been ages since I've been to the theatre."

"Matthew is quite nice enough for the both of us, thank you. But actually I was wondering if you had plans for tomorrow afternoon. Nanny's mother's come down with something and she needs to take time off to have a look in, make sure she's being properly cared for."

"Oh, is that all?" She thinks for a moment. "I did accept an invitation for tea at Mrs. Elliot's, but I can cancel."

"Then you won't mind watching the boys? I don't want to take you away, if it's too much trouble..."

"Of course it's not. I didn't really want to go anyway. And you know I never need a reason to watch over your lovelies." At the final word Sybil's smile broadens, a happy portrait made rueful given the faint brushstrokes of wistfulness, the stress girding her jaw, the reaching eyes. Tantalus grasping for the fruit always in sight but forever an inch too far away. So much love with nowhere to give it, and Mary's heart burns with the injustice.

"Well. William's teething and George is biting, so you may want to look for a reason this time."

"I've got thick skin." Sybil flicks at her arm. "Like a rhino. I'll take my chances."

"Thank you, darling." She glances at the clock. "Our special guest should be arriving soon."

"Yes." Sybil takes in a deep breath, interlocking her fingers under her breastbone. "Well?" Apprehension eats at her eyes. "How do I look?"

Mary keeps her face erect, permitting only her eyes to move once up and then down over her sister's stilted stance. "Like you're putting on armor."

"I mean it..."

"Beautiful. Immaculate. Stunning." Mary does not smile but her brows relax and the cheekbones relent. Endearment warms her tone. "Darling, you're gorgeous and you always will be. And from all I've heard I think you're far passed the wooing stage," she says as they ease towards the door. "And of course while elder sisters have their responsibilities, I know you want us to like him and I'll try not to be too severe. But fair warning: I've recently been accused of being rather snappish company."

Sybil laughs. But the sound doesn't linger as it used to, when the warmth rang long after the humor had vanished. "All right, then." She rubs her hands together, then laces them in what looks like a brief prayer – "Let's go down to tea" – said as if she's just received her marching orders, shoulders squared in preparation as she steps briskly out the door.

* * *

"Lady Mary. It's more than a pleasure." Christopher's shake is firm, a confident grip. But he bends a little too low over the bow. "I've heard so much about you."

"Good things, I hope?"

"Only the best, as you must already know." His head cocks slightly in the direction of Sybil having a word with one of the footman. "Given the source."

Mary is intrigued. But as far as looks go he's not remarkable, she must acknowledge. He's certainly not handsome, at least not in the classical sense. Face too round, chin too weak. And all in all when she first lays eyes on Christopher Galding she feels rather let down.

But then he smiles, lips spread fully and unreservedly, as if he's truly glad to meet _her_ rather than Lady Sybil's eldest sister, and she begins to see the appeal.

"And Lady Edith, of course, I recognize." The referenced sister moves forward to take her turn.

"Do you?" Edith asks.

"Lady Sybil provides me with clippings of your column."

"At his request," Sybil adds

"I see." Edith flashes a restrained smile. "Though I'll have you know it's my editor who insists on publishing the photo next to the byline." Her smile stretches. "And? What do you make of my column?"

"I'm not typically a reader _The Sketch _or similar publications, but I found your column to be…not at all what I expected." He smiles. "Rather enlightening, actually. And I must say, I fully agree that the Duplex hitch will revolutionize farming."

As usual Edith is struck momentarily mute by the compliment. So he's charming, Mary concedes – and he may as well be, greying tufts sprouting on either side of his head indicate he's had enough years to iron out any deficiencies in manners. And his speech is adept, bending like an acrobat in and out the rest of the introductions with a chimerical grace, flattery dolloped here and there as if he's wooing them all. Sybil's lovely dress. Edith's department store hat which suits her ever so. And the nuance in the decor. "Was that installed by Howerths on Bond Street?" The weeks-debated crown molding which no one has ever noticed till his crinkled eyes look up, point, and smile.

"As a matter of fact it was. Mr. Crawley and I argued over it for a fortnight."

"And good taste won out, I presume?"

Mary inclines her head. "As it always should."

They sit down to tea, and through the crisscross of white gloves, the passing of cups and sandwiches and pastries Christopher begins: "And how long have you and Mr. Crawley made your residence at Grantham Place?"

"We moved here from Downton six years ago, after a little over a year of marriage – _Matthew's_ idea," she throws out with her usual bite, though it was more insistence than idea, really, and Mary's smile at the recollection softens the incision. "A former colleague from his practice in Ripon started up a London branch and he was eager to join in." Of course she put up a fight – part of the bargain of marrying the heir was the convenience of never leaving home – and though she's good with an argument and even better at winning them, one fine afternoon the crisis came crashing, Papa's Canadian railway blunder exposed like a villain twirling its mustache in some Victorian melodrama – Downton Abbey, Papa's dignity, the Crawley's good name, the security for all future generations – her own progeny included – laid on the tracks of an oncoming locomotive. "And then after the war…" Mary shrugs. "Matthew claimed he was tired of an idle country life."

"No. He'd much rather an idle city life."

Mary shoots Edith, sipping casually away, a cold stare. "_Really_, Edith," Sybil intervenes, then addresses Christopher. "Matthew works very hard. Their practice is thriving and he hopes to open one of his own some day."

Edith verges on a pout, much to Sybil's discomfort, who begins squirming in her chair and flipping a fretful gaze between all their faces, as if reading three different novels at once. But Mr. Galding seems not to have noticed, or been made to feel as uncomfortable as his Lady. "Sybil tells me Mr. Crawley is a solicitor?" he says to Mary.

"Yes, and a good one." Her eyes dance spryly. "_Industry_ law," she says as if airing dirty laundry.

Christopher chuckles. "I know nothing of it, but I've always admired the profession."

"As have I. After all," Sybil says with a whisper of a reproach. "Wasn't it Matthew and his _Industry_ law that ended up saving Downton?" Mary casts her a wilting look. "Well it did!" She turns towards Christopher. "He has a head for investments, you know, and he manages all of Downton's lands and finances."

Mary could do without Sybil's barrage of appeasements. The infamous Crawley idiosyncrasies, a tapestry into which Sybil's own personal threads are woven seem now to only embarrass her, and Mary purses her lips, tussling with a retort as Edith gives her input: "Not that I enjoy splitting hairs, but I always thought it was Uncle Harold's rather timely demise that saved Downton."

Christopher coughs around a mouthful of tea. "Oh?"

Sybil looks mortified.

"_Really_, Edith."

"A yachting race gone awry."

"Yes, thank you, Edith."

"And then he left everything to Mama, of course. Our mother, twice over the savior of Downton Abbey."

It's moments like these when Mary admires her mother most. "Do forgive us, Mr. Galding. We seem to have strayed onto rather impolitic topics." Wrangling conversations and guests alike, the worst offenders more often than not sharing her last name. "Do you have a profession?" she asks.

"One might not consider philanthropy a profession, seeing as how it earns no income –"

"Rather the opposite of an income, I should think," Edith interjects.

Christopher smiles. "Of course you're right. But aside from managing the family estate, it is to charity which I devote most of my life." He seems to settle somewhat, as if at last falling into a comfortable position. "In my experience I find it far better to give any surplus of funds to where it might have the chance to do some good, rather than let it lie fallow, collecting dust somewhere in a forgotten vault."

Mary arches a brow. "It doesn't have to. I could always send Matthew on over."

Edith laughs. "For what? Picking out Sheffield Places' next crown moldings?"

"But Christopher does much more than simply donating," Sybil quickly adds, leaning forward as though to leap in, landing somewhere on the border between eagerness and desperation. "He spends a great deal of his time volunteering, I'd say as much as any man who works for a living."

"Your sister seems determined to over promote me." He lobs a significant look towards Sybil, whose eyes wander everywhere but to him. "I do what I can. And more often than not I find it is not nearly enough."

Mary tactfully retreads the conversation, shifting it to the weather. Rain is coming, Edith warns. And then Christopher tells them of the lovely sky that blanketed Camsbury yesterday, which topic naturally glides into a discussion of his upcoming feature in an Irish newspaper. The name "Mr. Branson" drops like a bomb load and renders its due and unwitting carnage, Sybil reaching immediately for the sweetest pastry, nibbling away in a silent SOS. Mary is two seconds from throwing out a life preserver, some inane segue on rising printing costs, when Edith beats her to it and, true to form, has managed to steer the conversation squarely towards herself.

"Speaking of articles, I was talking to Michael about the direction of my column. He thinks I ought to be writing more within my own sphere of experience, women's issues in the modern age and the like." She takes a swift gulp. "Naturally I disagreed. My next column will be about the general strike and its ramifications."

"From whose point of view?" Sybil asks with a pinched smile.

"No one's, I should think. I won't be taking any sides."

"An objective look on a worker's strike from someone who neither works nor employs?" Mary smiles with a cocked head. "That should show Michael."

"I _work_." Edith frowns at Mary's unblinking stare. "I'm a journalist!"

Sybil peers into her cup. "But will you be critical?"

"Where it's warranted, I suppose. Even the trade leaders considered it a mistake."

"Only I feel they've had enough judgment thrown on them. I'm not sure any more is necessary."

Edith opens her mouth but Mary's voice is quicker. "And what do you think of all this Mr. Galding?" she asks. "Should Edith wield her pen with brutality or compassion?"

"I agree with Lady Edith that a general strike was perhaps not entirely the best method to achieve their aims."

"Perhaps..." Sybil says, with a reticence Mary is unused to. "Though one could say that the wisdom of their methods is only proven by the outcome."

"Very true," he replies. "And we mustn't ignore their goals, which were noble in their intentions."

"More than noble, I should think. A living wage and decent working conditions..." Sybil sets down her cup. "Those should be considered anyone's basic rights."

"Taking notes, Edith?" Mary says.

Edith laughs. She leans towards Christopher. "Sybil's our devil's advocate, did you know? A real champion of the people."

He smiles. "And we wouldn't have her any other way."

Mary watches. Of note is they way his eyes twinkle like twin diamonds as his eyes fall upon Sybil, no doubt thinking her the costliest of jewels. He patently adores her. And by her observation if he is found lacking in anyway it is offset by his benign and caring demeanor, the face that one can get used to, the laugh that one can learn to love.

Of course that all depends on the person. Sybil is not in love. Mary has seen her sister wear the look before, and right now, eyes anxious rather than fond, seeking approval rather than demanding acceptance – right now Sybil is not in love. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

"She's marvelous at the hospital." Sybil shrinks into her cup. "Though I wonder," he asks turning towards Sybil, "what you shall occupy yourself with after the move is completed?"

"I've a few thoughts. But for the time being I suppose I'll spend more time with the suffrage societies."

Christopher smiles, and gives his ready endorsement to the plan. He is indeed a good man. A man worth marrying. But if Sybil looks the same while taking tea with him as she does while married to him, Mary will never forgive herself.

* * *

Sybil returns from seeing Christopher to the door, his request to dine with her privately Monday night and the unmistakable portent in his voice clouding her mind as she sits smashed between her sisters on the sofa, fingering the rim of her cup. "Well?"

"He's a nice fellow." Edith pops a final bit of cake into her mouth. "_I_ think, anyway."

"Too nice," Mary says.

"How can anyone be _too_ nice?" Sybil rolls her eyes. "_Really_, Mary..."

Mary's cup hits the saucer with a clink. "He's got no punch. He agrees with everything and disagrees with nothing."

"So he's amiable. Not everyone likes confrontation." Sybil smiles, a fragrance of her old mischief wafting. "Sort of like –"

"He reminds me of Matthew, actually!"

"No one asked _you_, Edith."

Edith leans to her left. "And that's Mary's problem," she says to Sybil's ear in a mock whisper. "She's got too much punch."

Sybil doesn't bother to temper her volume, saying over her cup's rim, "Agrees with nothing and disagrees with everything? Yes, that sounds about right." And takes an innocent sip.

But tribulations are ahead, Mary's eyes sinking to slits as the sisters brace themselves for the slicing riposte when Nanny comes bursting through the door – urgent news from the nursery – George on a warpath, and William with a few more sets of teeth marks in him.

"Saved by my naughtier pair of children." Mary stands, imparting over her shoulder as she follows Nanny out the door, "You two be good, and no scheming while I'm gone."

Sybil and Edith are not bosom buddies, nor prone to much beyond pleasantries when Mary is absent. They fall silent, and Sybil grave with private contemplation, if her dour expression is anything to go by. Edith mentally fumes as Sybil's complexion bleeds to a vexing pallor, as if a wonderful man bent on marrying her should be the cause of despair. There are times when she simply cannot wrap her head around how many perfectly good men have been laid to waste at her sisters' feet: Evelyn Napier, Matthew, Sir Richard – to say nothing of the string of Sybil's castaways since Branson and their botched elopement.

And the latest sacrifice is far too commendable for his fate. Edith had not been exaggerating with her assessment: he is nice. Terribly nice. As good as perfect for any rational spinster in this manless day and age. And though Sybil may sit with poise and a pretense of affection when he is nearby, bequeathing smile after smile as to a puppy begging for scraps, Edith has no doubt he will be laid upon Sybil's altar eventually – for all her bravado, if Anthony had cold feet then Sybil walks on a pair of ice blocks.

"Do you think you could have been happy with someone else?" The quiet voice utters unexpectedly and Edith startles out of her reverie. "Besides Michael, I mean?"

Edith ponders. "I think so." Her look grows cold. "_My_ problem was always that no one else seemed to be happy with me."

"That's not true..."

"And it was even worse with you and Mary always around, living out these grand love stories."

"Not very grand in the end, though, were they. At least not for me."

"Perhaps. But it's not as if_ I've_ ever eloped."

"Neither have I."

Edith looks over. Sybil's face is like a sprung steel trap in its rigidity. "You're right." She sighs, closing her eyes. "I don't know why I'm still like that sometimes." She opens them, eyes soft. "Sybil…I know what you're thinking, and while I don't know much about….all _this_, I will tell you what I _do_ know. When Anthony left me, I thought I would never get over him, or even be happy again. But I have. And I am. I gave Michael a chance, even when I wasn't sure I should, and now I love him. And we're happy." She laughs. "At least as much as we can be." She waffles for a second, debating the next part. But Sybil's wide eyes look to be engulfing every word, so she adds, "And for what it's worth: I like Christopher."

Sybil folds her hands into her lap, and looks down. "Yes. He's very nice."

"That's what I've been saying all along."

"And it would be a comfortable life."

"Certainly."

Sybil looks up. "Of course I already have a comfortable life."

"Call me a romantic, but comfort never did me much good alone."

"And it would be a good end, I suppose. After everything."

A statement of fact; but Sybil's eyes pose a question. And Edith does not have the answer. While she lives with no regret, her hesitance regarding Michael was more a morale issue than one of the heart, and Edith resigns herself that she will not be much more of a help to her sister, that in all her years plodding this earth she's never been much of a help to anyone. And instead of pretending at camaraderie or well wishing to oblivion, she rises without salutation, grabbing a set of keys on her way out the front door.

* * *

When it comes down to it, if ten thousand words are needed then he is bound to find them somewhere.

Branson scavenges the words and phrases, shallow notes and strokes fished from the surface of his mind, the dated and rote cliches pooled in the recesses. Meaningless tripe, but it reads well. He can make nearly anything read well. A light and frothy affair that will be lapped up like a basin of sweet milk by the idealist, that ten years ago would have been lapped up by him.

Almost a year to the day after coming home to Dublin from Downton it was announced to the office that their paper would not be closing after all, that they would all have jobs and purpose tomorrow, and Branson had been cajoled by a few of his colleagues into joining them for a celebratory drink after work.

And on a stool in the back corner of the pub sat a dark haired woman with beckoning eyes. Up to that point Branson felt impervious to any charms of the opposite sex; but she smiled at just the right angle, dimly lit under a pale lantern light with a head full of loose curls that flooded down her back as unspooling thread. So he met her acquaintance and they absconded into the night. And he kissed the pink lips and made love to the soft body. And the next morning he felt a void so deep it hurt, a hollowness that had nothing to do with waking up alone.

He has that same feeling now, of an emptied jar aching to be filled, as he dots and crosses the last of the letters on his completed article:

_A Second Son's Inheritance: A Personal Look at the Property Acts _

He gives it a final read through, then stuffs it all into a large envelope, seals it, and carries it to the post office where it is marked for express, overnight to Dublin. Then he walks back to the hotel. Foregoing lunch, he spends his time with those little sketches living in the margins of his notes, shading in the line art, filling out the details. When all daylight has fled he holds it back for inspection. He ought to frame it, he thinks, these wan images so painfully accurate for having glimpsed the splendor of the original after all these years, a masterwork compared to the ones drawn from specious memory that paper the bottom of his desk drawers back home.

And what an end to their story, this fleshless face the only memorabilia he'll have to take back home, the face will never see her again. He stares at it for some inordinate measure of time. Hollow and empty. And then he looks up, someone banging on his door.

The hotel clerk's face appears at the door.

There's another phone call for him.

* * *

Pitched onto the passenger seat, her hat sits like a punished child, ignored and idle as she speeds down the busy street, weaving through the plodding traffic, squinting through the mesh of windswept curls that whip about her face, any hint of this morning's painstaking styling torn to pieces – a crime against her set's token fastidiousness, perhaps, but she always drives this way in an open car, for what would be the point of driving one at all, if not fast and free? _Incorrigibly_ – the way Branson used to decry in what seemed like another era – a bygone age when the skirts and licentiousness did not inch higher and higher with every passing season, her own lilac skirt closer to her knees than her ankles.

A disgruntled pedestrian screams expletives to her screeching wake as she flies around the last bend, and she shifts her eyes downward to the scribbled address balancing against her thigh, then skids on a dime to a slow, lazy crawl. She scans each face, and the rusting numbers festooned above the doorways opening and closing in perpetuity to the dense flux of bodies crawling over the pavement like a disrupted anthill. Her search finally ends when she spots her target on a corner. Garbed in a haze of gray, one shoulder leans against a signpost, the rest of him bent on smoking his lungs out, a deep frown etched under his knitted brows.

Her gleaming and spotless motor rolls slowly down the bland colored street, a taste of the decadent feasted upon by the passersby who leave a trail of gawks and stares following. And then she pulls up beside him, engine singing with a luxuriant purr before shutting it off.

"You look quite done in. Not bad news, I hope?"

Something of a flashy entrance she admits, perhaps erring on the side of overeager; but Edith knows the value of first impressions, and this may well be counted as one for all that time has changed her. She is pleased when his jaw begins to slacken, then irritated when it becomes clear that it's not for _her_ that his eyes glue open in a slight bulge: there are some things time will never change, and it somewhat rankles to know that the shock apparent on his face is due mostly to her vehicle, a beaming midnight blue Bugatti roadster.

"Lady Edith?"

"Branson." She bares her teeth in a growling smile. "Been awhile, hasn't it?"

Wariness defines his face as he watches her lift the parking brake, eyes digging in, no doubt hoping to unearth her motives. "It has." Then he roves his gaze unabashedly down the entire length of the car. But he does not approach her, or even seem to entertain the notion of capitulating ground. So she slides out of the seat and saunters up to him, amused by the palpable distrust narrowing his eyes and his half step backwards – not quite the mousy girl that squeaks in his memory. "What are you here to see me for, m'lady?"

"No particular reason. Just out for an afternoon drive. I spotted you on the corner and felt it behooved me to say hello." She takes off her sunglasses with one hand while the other pushes her hair back into some kind of order, eyes blinking against the onslaught of light. "For old time's sake."

The revelation of her eyes, her most unaltered feature – her weakest feature – seems to encourage him. He pushes off the post, then flicks his consumed and smoldering fag to the ground. He fishes two fresh ones from his breast pocket, proffering one of them to her which she wordlessly accepts.

"So," he says. "You were out driving in the East end of all places, and just happened to find me out of everyone else in the whole of London." He strikes a match and lights his cigarette, then reaches over to extend the courtesy. "Funny, that."

"Thank you." She takes in a few quick drags, saying around the smoking plumes, "For some reason I knew you wouldn't buy coincidence. Which is why I've come up with a more convincing theory."

"Which is?"

"Just the truth, really." Aiming for imposing, those leftovers of the tigress allotted to her when apportioned out to the Crawley ladies, she summons Granny's snarling smiles, Aunt Rosamund and her claws for eyes. She puts on her best Mary-face. "I want to know what your intentions are with my sister."

"No intentions." Voice too flippant. "I came here for an assignment, or didn't you hear?" His eyes seethe, and the fag in his hand shakes. Something has him rattled, and Edith doesn't think it is solely due her impromptu visit.

"Touchy. I don't remember you being so prickly when you were the chauffeur."

"I was paid to be nice. And I'm not your chauffeur anymore, or anyone else's."

"That's right, you're a journalist now." She leans in with a smug, toothy smile. "Just like me!"

His eyes roll up unhindered, a more potent version of a look she has seen before – _And if you do get called up? I'd take your place. I'd have a job!_ And then as honestly as he could while still in best behavior mode – _there are jobs and are _jobs_, m'lady_ – and Lady Edith, in his ungracious opinion, no doubt holds the latter, working only when she feels like it and never truly needing it, as if working for satisfaction rather than bread somehow rendered the act valueless. She would take issue, if her purpose were to quarrel over philosophy, and if he weren't now turning away to leave.

"If the interrogation's over I'd appreciate you being on your way," he says. "I'm not in the mood for company, especially yours."

She watches his back depart a few steps and she's tempted to leave him forever to his obstinacy and unhappy ending. But everyone deserves second chances, Lord knows where she would be without them.

"But I've barely arrived!" she calls out. He turns back around. "And since I've already come all this way, why don't you let me take you for a spin?"

"Because I don't trust you."

She smiles. "Come now, Branson, aren't we old friends? What do you think I'm going to do, hand you over to _Mary_?"

"It's nothing to do with that." He steps down the curb, running his hand almost reverentially along the burnished aluminum body of the car up to the passenger side door. "I taught you to drive, remember?" He opens it. "What are the chances I'll be dropped off back alive?"

"As good as my own, I suppose. Fairly good odds, considering I'm still at large, terrorizing roads." And she hops in with a grin.

He throws her hat into the back seat and sits down, leaning back as the engine rumbles to life. She drives south, out of the seediest neighborhoods but not towards the most opulent, a nicely struck balance considering the makeup of the car's occupants, the air between them tense enough without any contribution from the environment.

A good while passes by in silence. By the time he begins drumming his hands along the door rim the grey facades of urban life have disappeared, replaced by endless lines of browning hedgerows that seem to box them in. "So do you live in London now?" he asks.

"Yes."

"But not at Grantham Place?"

Her hands tighten on the wheel. "I see you've heard about my living arrangements."

"I think everyone's heard, especially those of us in the business. Not quite what I imagined for Lady Edith Crawley, shacking up with her married editor."

"Please, don't pull any punches, not for my sake." Her grip relaxes. "But you are right. I moved in with Mr. Gregson six years ago and now here I am, living out my own rather notorious headline."

"I'd say even more notorious than eloping with the chauffeur."

She quells the urge to laugh. "Ah, I see what you're getting at. Yes, I suppose I am a raging hypocrite, or at least time has made me so." She shrugs with a smile. "But you're not going to make _me_ feel guilty. I did, after all, tell you to wait."

The lightness in her tone does not match well the sudden gloom that eclipses, his shadowing countenance. A creasing brow. Moody eyes. And a mouth that curves down and then away as he turns to face the blurring scenery. And she feels unnerved at the evidence of how easily uncloaked one can become with a single word or phrase, and slips the sunglasses back over her face.

"She handles well, doesn't she," she says with a hammering sort of cheer. "And I can accelerate to sixty in five seconds. Rather a marvelous machine. Tell me, what do you think of her?"

"I haven't sat in anything this expensive since I left Downton." He nods towards the dashboard. "Is she yours?"

"I only wish. Michael and I could never afford something like this." She shakes her head. "No, she belongs to friend of mine. Lucy Danvers, who refuses to drive anything with a top, and who's convinced her husband that any motor over three years old isn't worth keeping."

"Lucky for her."

Edith grins. "And lucky for her friends she's often going abroad and doesn't like the thought of her babies sitting idle." They drive silently for some minutes, Edith deciding how to broach the inevitable. "Actually Lucy was at the party Monday night, the one where you bumped into Sybil."

At the name he gives a partial grimace, and what she thinks is an effort to contain it. But his tone is noncommittal at best. "I thought it looked familiar. I saw it parked out front. Hard to miss."

"For people like us, perhaps. But my flat doesn't have a covered garage so I keep it parked at Grantham Place, and no one ever notices except Matthew. Sybil walks by it everyday as if it doesn't exist."

"She wouldn't, though. She never cared much for the cars."

The latter half of that sentence looms like an anvil poised above them. Edith is careful to avoid anything that might release the trigger, to upset the delicate balance they've achieved. She lets the comfort of the drive, and her discretionary silence, do it's work, knowing that she and Branson are alike in being soothed by the simplicity of a working engine, machines and their unfeeling reliability.

Speaking of which:

"Tell me Branson, do you hear that?"

He cocks his head, eyes shifted peripherally. After a moment they widen and Edith knows he has heard it, the bass line of sputtering noise that runs through the normal lulling chug of the engine.

"What is it?" he asks.

"I haven't the faintest. It comes and goes. I heard it first about a week ago. But Matthew's chauffeur is altogether rubbish, and of course I wouldn't dream of taking her to a public garage." She pauses. "Lucy lent it to me in working condition and I ought to return it just the same." She pauses again, this one breeding significance. "Do you think –?"

"What?" He cuts her off with a challenging look, daring her.

"Would you mind taking a look at her while you're here? If you've got the time, that is."

"You want me to fix your car?"

She shrugs. "Why not?"

He barks out a harsh laugh. "Where do you want me to start?"

"Don't pretend you don't want to. You may not have liked being a chauffeur but I know well enough how much you like working on motors."

He seems to consider. "I won't deny it." And after another minute of heavy silence: "And you keep it at Grantham place?"

"That's what I said."

He sighs. But it's a slow expulsion, more the low blow of defeat rather than one of aggravation. "What are you playing at m'lady?" One hand rubs at his eyes.

"Nothing at all, I should hope. I want the car fixed, and you've always been a tight screw at fixing up cars."

"So this has nothing to do with fixing what you did all those years ago?"

"I didn't _do_ anything. Or break anything. As I said before, I'm not going to let you make me feel guilty. I _told_ you to wait."

"Why?"

She thinks for a moment, studying the stretch of road ahead as she reaches back into memory. "I don't know, really. It all came out rather suddenly without much forethought on my part. I suppose I was very emotional back then, and I didn't like the idea of hurt feelings." She shrugs. "Perhaps I was afraid this might happen."

"And what has happened?"

An unanswerable question. Edith feels she has of late been dodging a barrage of such. And he looks imploring enough that she doesn't think he means it for the rhetorical.

"Listen, Branson, if you're worried about seeing Sybil again you shouldn't be. She's out nearly every day doing God knows what, changing napkins or bringing ice cream to orphans. All I want is for you to come by and have a little look under the bonnet. No one has to know – it'll be our secret!"

His jaw sets. "I'm leaving tomorrow. I've already decided." Behind the dark cover of her glasses Edith roll her eyes. _Just_ _like the worst kind of mule_. The worst parts of himself.

She decides to dangle a bit of honey. "Are you sure? Only I'd let you take her out for a little while once she's all patched up."

That perks him up. "You mean I could drive her?"

"Of course. You should know I wouldn't be that cruel. Consider it your wage – unless you want me to _pay_ you, which I won't. So unless you've got something waiting for you back in Dublin more exciting than a pleasure ride in a Bugatti Roadster..."

He says nothing at first, and then suddenly he's laughing, cold and bitter in a way that makes her want to pullover and hug him. "Not at the moment, no."

"I'm not sure I understand," Edith says. "What's the joke?"

"Nothing." He reaches into his jacket for another cigarette. "But have you ever had the rug pulled out?"

"Well I was jilted at the alter. Does that count?"

His eyes go wide. "And what did you do after?"

"I woke up the next morning and had breakfast. Then I got on with my life."

He shakes his head. "Easier said than done."Then he lights the fag with nearly a laugh. "But breakfast might be a start.

"Whatever is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means…what time should I come?"

Edith jolts at the sudden and easy acquiescence, almost unthinkingly answering, "How about tomorrow, any time after luncheon?"

"You mean you won't even feed me?"

She laughs. "It's not my house. But you're welcome to our leftovers." And zooms on.

* * *

Mary reads in an airy parlor immersed in that almost silence of quiet birdsong and the faint hum of human rustling. Gauzy drawn drapes trickle in just the right amount of light, and all is calm and languid as those late summer brooks and their interminable babbling, until sharp heels snap their way through the door, the angry jangle of a set of keys thrown onto the side table resounding through the room.

"Well, I've done it."

A light flutter as Mary turns another page in her issue of _Vogue_. The new Autumn line of shoes is proving a disappointment and provokes a frown.

"Of course you did."

"Not because _you_ told me to. Because of Sybil." Edith sinks onto the sofa next to where her sister sits heedless of her presence, crossing her legs and raking her hair back down to something presentable. She fishes into her bag. "We were talking after you left to go scolding in the nursery. She asked me the most absurd and personal questions – I was almost affronted. I answered them, of course, and she looked..." She lifts out her cigarette case, fitting one into her mouth. "I don't know...lost?"

"I've told you not to do that in here."

Edith snatches the stick out of her mouth with an exasperated noise and a stolen glance to the ceiling as Mary closes the magazine, tossing it onto the coffee table. She leans onto the arm of the sofa, head propped against her hand.

"She's looked that way for awhile. As if wandering in the desert for the last seven years."

"Except she doesn't seem very eager to find the Promised Land." Without her cigarette Edith grows fidgety, and she bounces her crossed leg. "What are we doing, Mary?"

"Nothing. I'm going to the theatre and you've arranged to get Lucy's car fixed."

"But you don't really want her to marry him, do you?"

"Marriage? Now that's quite a leap." Mary fingers a plum tassel affixed to the corner of a sofa pillow, swimming her finger through silken threads as she considers. Then she sits up straight, looks directly into Edith's eyes, hands at rest in her lap. "What I want is for her to be happy. And she hasn't been, not since they parted."

"So you want to bring them back together? You think she can only be happy with him?" Edith bites out a laugh, halfway to a snort. "Romantic, I'll grant you, but hardly a realistic notion in my experience."

"Do you know what your problem is, Edith?"

"Oh, do enlighten me, please."

"Assumption. And when you do it, which is frequently, it's always with the worst in mind." Edith uncrosses her legs and adjusts her skirt, eyes down, as much of a yielding as her pride will allow. Mary continues: "One might assume, and quite rightly, that she's unhappy because of him. But it's more than that. I think her life makes her unhappy, and what's more I don't think she knows why, or even what it is she needs to be happy. And she won't ever be, not as long as some part of her, however unwilling, decides that it's him."

"But what if he is?"

Mary shrugs, eyes bleak with a distant weariness. "Then he is. And we'll have to accept it."

"I'm not sure, though." Her brow wrinkles. "You'd think that if they were still in love something would have brought them back together by now. Neither one's married, and it's no secret where they've been living all these years. And they spent all of yesterday together."

"They spent all of yesterday _in company_. There's a difference. We are what we are, and you know how much Sybil puts on a show."

And how much any of them do. _She's just showing off. _No matter how hard they try to counter the pull of their rearing.

"And Branson's awfully full of himself," Edith remarks. Mary's eyes shoot up. "What? He is and he always has been. And I doubt his pride would have suffered to have him groveling back after what happened in the Inn." She taps her chin with one finger. "She could be happy with Christopher, I think." Mary casts her a shriveling look. "Well, _maybe_."

"As I said: That's for Sybil to decide. But she needs a real chance to make the determination, which means putting a period on her feelings for Branson."

"Which means throwing them back together?"

Mary gives a half nod.

Edith looks into her skirt, pockets of her face pinching together, fingers picking at imaginary lint. "I'm still not sure." She looks up to Mary square in her face. "We meddled last time and look what happened."

"What's done is done. The arrangements have been made and there's no use backing out of it now. And it's not as if we're doing _much_."

"No, not _much_. Nothing but poking and prodding and nudging. _Manipulating_." She can no longer hold back the troubling indictments that have rallied in her mind, and they begin to pour forth. "But did we make a mistake, Mary?" she cries. "Stopping them all those years ago?" Each lonely year and languorous look from her sister administering another dose of guilt.

Mary will not look at her, eyes fixed to the window. "I don't believe we did. If they wanted to marry they should have marched into the drawing room and announced it, not fled into the night on a bed of lies."

"Then why does it feel like we've ruined her life?"

She closes her eyes. "No one's ruined anyone's life. We did what was best and most prudent for her in that moment." She opens her eyes and looks at Edith, lips hard set in a line that will not bend to contradiction. "Hindsight is what it is."

"And so what if he comes? And they speak? What if the air is not cleared and nothing is accomplished? What if we come home to find her floundering more than ever? Drowning?"

If the compressing thought had crossed Mary's mind she does not show it. Always with the cordoned face, the untranslatable eyes. Edith has known them her whole life and they are as much a stranger now as ever. But the slight tremble in Mary's voice she does recognize:

"Fate can only be given so many helping hands." Mary leans over to retrieve her discarded magazine, opening it at random. "No one likes to leave the last page of a book unfinished. She'll have some kind of an ending, which will have to be good enough for us all.


	6. Chapter 6: Inception

_Hello! Thanks again for all the reviews and to the lovely Mrstater for taking the time to beat. Again, sorry for the delay it's been a very hectic few months. But hopefully the remaining chapters will not be so long in coming._

* * *

_Lady Grantham waves at the car pulling away, her turtle steps trailing after the bumper. Once Sybil's chipper face is carried beyond sight of the well wishers, he watches her untwist from the window and lean heavily into the passenger seat, face gone damp in that helpless way of driftwood, ripples in her eyes that begin to flow over – a preemptive mourning, he thinks, for the parts of her that will cease during her time away, the things which will never be the same when she gets back._

_He's never seen her cry before. He's tempted to watch her now. But he knows without say-so this is a private moment, and tacks his eyes to the road. _

_But he can't stop up his ears against the small sniffles that poke their way through the noise of the engine, and he reflects on those one or two times before when she had come close to tears in his presence, frustration with the war or him or her family, a combination of them all that nearly boiled over before she clamped on the lid in that aloof, mechanized way of theirs, left him and their little made up world to no doubt dispose of her emotion without audience._

_She's in no frame for open conversation, staring quiet and absent out the window as her face dries. And he can't bring himself to toe the ledge either, not while Downton and its dwarfing facade remains towering in the distance as their third passenger. The crenellated tower stays with them down the park lane, onto the country road, fading to a speck until he takes the final bend onto the highway and it vanishes off the horizon as if it had never been there at all – and then it is just them again._

_He runs his hands over the wheel. "Are you nervous," he asks._

_She responds with a smile: "Yes." Silence enters, her face still regarding the window. After a small sigh she faces forward. "What about when you first left home?"_

"_What about it?"_

"_Were you nervous?"_

"_Not really."_

_She digests his answer. Then in a somewhat sheepish voice: "Did you cry?"_

_If he had shed anything they were tears of joy. But he knows better than to laugh. "No." He shrugs. "But you can't really compare the two."_

"_And why not?" _

"_Because they're not the same."_

"_Because you were always meant to leave home, and I'm only meant to leave home when I marry?"_

_He glances back to check that the smile in her voice is also on her face. "Because I was older when I left." His eyes resume their watch on the road. "And I knew a bit more about the world than you do now."_

"_I suppose I don't need to ask whether you think me very knowledgeable."_

"_I think you know a lot about one kind of world. But it's not the one most people live in."_

_She opens her mouth, then closes it and sighs. Her eyes again find the window. "You're probably right. Sometimes I feel as if I don't really know anything at all." _

"_That's not what I meant."_

"_I know."_

"_I think everyone feels that way sometimes." _

_He feels her eyes on him. "Everyone should."_

_They speak sparsely and shallowly the rest of the way. When the college bends into sight her back goes rigid and her eyes alive with a kind of predisposed wonder, as if watching a favorite play enacted for the very first time, and she's lost to him until he parks the car outside of the gates and hands her out. _

_He follows her at a close distance, both of her cases ("Only two!" she had said. "Aren't you proud of my restraint?) clenched in his sweating palms as he rehearses and recites and risks his future with the lese majesty harbored in his tongue, waiting for the opportunity to launch the revolution._

_They travel the path up to the offices. The rows of exercising, dismembered men he was not expecting. "That brings it home a bit."_

"_Rather." Her steps begin to slow._

_He comes beside her. "You'll be all right, m'lady?" _

_She looks at him. "I will. Thank you." Her pace picks back up but doesn't leave him behind. "I don't feel sad anymore. I do want this, truly. It's where I want to be." Her eyes stray back to the rows of marked veterans. "Now I feel...I'm more excited than anything." And her hale smile tells him the roots have taken, that she's survived the deracination and she's blooming again. _

_They stop under an archway, the threshold to her new life an arms length away, her fears evaporated as morning mist. But now the tables are turned. He's nervous. Terrified. In that moment he thinks he may know nothing about the world. And while she's never seen him cry before, he fears for his resilience, fears she may just get the chance._

_She begins speaking, something of a roundabout goodbye. And he takes off his hat._

**Inception**

Ten minutes after the always punctual start of luncheon Edith swans into the dining parlor wearing traveling clothes and a flagrantly unabashed look. Mary says nothing. Her eyes do all the necessary talking.

"What do you expect?" Edith says while lowering herself into the only unoccupied chair. "It's not as if Michael and I can afford servants to pack for us."

Mary snaps open her serviette. "If you're so pressed for time, then why bother coming here at all?"

"This might be hard for you to believe, but I happen to enjoy spending time with my family. And I don't like missing out on the opportunity for that particular pleasure."

"Or the particular pleasure of free food?"

Edith rolls her eyes with a faint flush – it's not difficult to ascertain why she is so often to be found in the luxury of her sister's palatial home rather than her three bedroom flat in Hampstead. "Could we start, please? I _am_ in something of a hurry."

Once her simmering brows cool down Mary makes her first slice into the fish she has ordered for luncheon, and the four Crawleys partake of their meal with all the normalcy that conventional table talk and the sound of clicking cutlery can supply. No outcroppings of conspicuous behavior, not a single falter in the rhythm of food and family. For once, no intrigue to be heard for miles:

"Nanny will leave after we've finished eating, darling." Mary uses her serviette to dab carefully at her mouth, then glances at Matthew. "And then Lewis is bringing 'round the motor at two."

He nods with a gulp. "Plenty of time to change."

And Sybil nods – "Yes." – her concentration absent and listless as she rotates a bite around her fork, eyes drawn down, missing the looks casting over her bent head, thinking only that the flaky, mangled flesh on her plate must in part resemble her churning interior. No doubt Matthew and Mary's current conversation on the upward stock projections is riveting; but despite due effort Sybil's aptitude strays, wandering back down the path to the churchyard trodden earlier that morning, returning her to Reverend's dispassionate commendation of he_ – who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had, and bought it. _A wise man, she had thought. _A wise bet_.

"What's this show you're seeing?" Edith asks. "I've never heard of it."

Matthew says, "The newest from Broadway – _Lady Be Good_." He gives Sybil one of his pursed smirks. "Sybil was rather put out that I didn't secure her a ticket, isn't that right, Sybil?"

She nods. Lightly, she taps the tines of her fork against the china. Try as she might she can't put her finger on it – she can never quite put her finger on it. All she knows is that it's an odd occurrence that church should have disarmed her so cleanly. Normally, she rather enjoys the semblance of peace offered by an ordinary Sunday service, Reverend's droning scripture portioned off into bite sized morsels, easy to swallow for the religiously laissez faire that make up the greater portion of the congregation in London's Mayfair district and even more easily dispatched by her wandering mind. Stuck in a hard-backed pew, she likes to watch the pathways of the flickering, scattering dust mites made visible by the light pouring through the angles of colored glass stretched from sill to steeple.

"You didn't buy it, so where did you get it?"

Edith fingers the checkered scarf knotted at her throat. "If you must know, Aunt Rosamund lent it to me. She said if I liked it I could keep it."

"I wouldn't bother. Black doesn't suit you."

Edith ignores Mary, turns to solicit another opinion:

"How do you like it, Sybil?"

Sybil smiles. "It's lovely."

And she'll sit each Sunday sheltered beneath those ancient Biblical scenes that gives one the vague idea of certainty, as of nesting in a lee during a stormy night. Peace and surety. But there was no trace of either this morning. And if she is honest she will own that there has been no true peace, that kind which passes understanding, for a long while thence.

Sybil startles at the sound of screeching wood on wood, Edith rising and her plate scraped clean. All the plates scraped clean but her own.

"Time for me to be off," Edith says. They've all been informed several times over of the salon she'll be attending for the next few days.

Mary gestures for the pudding. "So soon?" she deadpans.

Edith only smiles. "Please, do stay seated," she says to Matthew's rising face. "As it is, Michael will already scold me about being late. But don't be too put out; I'll be sure to overstay my welcome next time. Thank you for lunch, Mary. Matthew. Sybil." Three succinct nods and then she leaves with long strides and all the forced nonchalance with which she'd arrived.

Mary and Matthew easily regroup, slipping back into the routine of the meal. By now they are well used to the flotsam forever filtering in and out of their home, a bastion for errant sisters and their borrowed motors, and their talk continues seamlessly on. "But I still think Cambridge for the boys." And of course Mary argues for Oxford purely on principle.

Nothing but the everyday.

"Carter's asked for another dinner meeting tomorrow."

"Not tomorrow, please. Edith is gone and Sybil has other plans, and you know how I hate to dine alone."

The clank of Sybil's dropped knife sends twin, alarmed gazes bolting in her direction. "So sorry. How clumsy."

She begins to feel them now, the gusts on the horizon. There will be no cleft for her to dive under, no escape from her dinner with Christopher and the attending questions, the answers that must follow. Before certain doors will be closed forever, the way to the other side bolted and locked.

_Believe it or not I will –_

_Will I?_

"If Sybil's close to Bond street tomorrow she can easily pick them up. You don't mind, do you darling?"

Sybil shakes her head, and finally decides to exclude herself from discussion for the remainder of luncheon. And when she at last decides to end the pretense of appetite and equanimity she wipes her mouth, rises, and with a dainty adieu climbs upstairs to change for the afternoon, feeling weary in a way she hasn't since the sleepless weeks of 1919.

She changes out of her Sunday dress and dons a simple patterned frock, not knowing why the sight of her ageless face in the mirror, as fresh and unchanged as her debut night, brings tears to her eyes.

* * *

Up a half-flight of steps, Branson stares at the double doors, familiar only from passing rather than entry, and the leonine knocker which he has no intention of using. It seems quiet inside. He wonders if anyone is home. His fingers start to jitter in that way that sends them snatching for his pack of fags, and he closes them to fists, poising the right one above the door just as it swooshes open a crack and he's greeted with Lady Edith's grin popping through.

"Branson? My, but you've really come! Not that I thought...I mean...well, I wasn't _quite_ sure –" She stops to untie her tongue, Branson's syncopated pulse regulating somewhat at the comfort of things which will never change. "In any case," she continues, "come with me 'round the back and I'll let you into the garage." She steps outside, a ring of keys jingling in the hand that swings by her hip, and passes him down the stairs, assuming the lead down the paved path winding to the back of the house.

He follows a few steps behind, appraising the firmly shut door with a backward look. "What? Am I not allowed in the house?"

"I told you before, it's not my house. I don't even live here."

"So Lady Mary doesn't know I'm coming?"

"Oh, she knows. Both my sisters know."

He shoves his hands into his pockets. He says after a pause: "Both?"

She stops and turns around. Her face betrays nothing. "It came up over lunch." She shrugs, and walks on.

Meandering more than is necessary for the short trek, he makes a point of examining each passing stone and branch, eyes fascinated by everything but the path forward. Finally they round a corner and come upon the back entrance to the garage, which he knows sits adjacent to the side of the house, the two connected by a slim wooden door painted only one side.

Edith brandishes a key, blotches of indelible tarnish staining the top, the same one that used to be in his possession.

The door opens with a creak.

Beams of light slip in through the open door and fall across the boot of the roadster. Dusty, unwashed windows leave the rest of the room up to imagination. "And where are your sisters this afternoon?" he asks.

"They're out." She gropes along the right interior wall. "Now where is it...?"

"Other side," he supplies.

She gives him an assessing look. "Thank you." And she switches hands, shuffling her palm now along the left side. "Ah." And with a click the room is bathed in harsh yellow light. He sees the Bugatti in full glory, the only car parked in a space big enough for three – Lady Edith wasn't lying about the empty house.

He follows her inside. He hadn't been hoping for anything that he was aware of, but he has trouble keeping the plaintive sink in his stomach from spreading to his face.

Edith leans back against the bonnet. "Well here you are. I'm sure you remember where everything is. Lewis hasn't moved a thing in here but the cars since we hired him, and if Matthew is to be believed he never does."

His eyes roam about the room, into the crooks and up into the corners to make out the differences, which are few, if any. Not that he would consider himself an expert. There were only those two seasons before the war, and through the years after a small handful of trips to London of a duration that required both a car and the opening the house. Familiarity breeds contempt, and he doesn't hate the place. It's not the loathed garage at Downton, not the back of his hand, the summation of his life where every groove and imperfection can be tabulated for easy perusal.

But the longer he looks the more he begins to remember, the box of bolts on the third shelf down and the motor oil sitting in a greasy bin along the east wall. And there is the loft bed nestled among the rafters where he used to sleep. There is the tool box in the corner. His home away from home away from home.

Edith watches him drag the rusted metal box from the corner and lift out a screwdriver. "Do you really think you can fix it?"

"With the right parts I can fix anything."

She grins. "All right." Then she pushes off the car and walks to the house-side door. "I'll have to step out for awhile, until after dinner. You can take her out once you've finished, and keep her as long as you like. And Branson?"

"Yes, Lady Edith?"

"Thank you for this. I mean it."

She opens the creaky-hinged door and he watches her disappear into that other world. He turns to face the garage. This is the world he knows, the only one he wants to. So he takes off his hat and jacket and lays them across an uneven bench, rolls up his sleeves and pops open the bonnet.

His eyes widen at what he sees inside. Like Picasso. Truly a work of art for those with discerning tastes. He smiles at what he thinks she would say about that, she who could mistake a crankshaft for an alternator without even trying. And he'll enjoy it, he decides, this one day to fix cars and to drive them, to forget about tomorrow and what awaits him back in Dublin, the phone call from yesterday that upended his world, and pretend that today is the only day that matters, that his future is something more to look forward to than a heap of shambles.

He sets to work. _Tinkering_, some might call it. And besides, he thinks. The day isn't over. Everyone comes home eventually, and he can work slowly. Too much optimism for the tried and true cynic, but he convinces himself that it isn't quite like hoping. More like welcoming an old friend home for a visit. An old spark.

* * *

She bucks up on the flight up to the nursery attics, cleans off the dour look and brooding quality. Sybil has been known to the boys for the entirety of their lives as the Aunt with a smile, the one who will play with them. Strangers to variation, they also seem to have inherited Mary's sense of perception, and she would rather not content with that incisive line of questioning so often found on the lips of babes, all the more piercing for its innocence, for knowing there is nothing ulterior lurking behind the _Why?_

With her most winning smile in place, she swings the door open and a fusillade of toys erupts from the chest in the corner as George shoots to a stand. "Auntie Sybil!" William gurgles a bit of gratified nonsense and comes waddling slowly a few steps behind, arms wide in a preparatory bear hug.

"Come here, you darlings." She engulfs each of them in their turn, plopping a steady row of kisses onto their played-out and dampened heads. They smell musky and unkempt, the way she thinks she used to smell before her corsets and perfumes came alongside her governess to help with the reigning in. Nanny curtsies and mumbles a few unnecessary platitudes and instructions, then quickly departs without a single glance back, no doubt making her escape before someone somewhere has a chance to change their mind.

Sybil stands and watches her go, the door closing after the white apron bow, then she turns back with a wide grin, giving over her whole attention to boys. "Now. I've got you two to myself for the whole afternoon. What shall we play?"

George's slimming toddler legs make their way to a sprawling, multi-colored pile. "Blocks! I make a boat!" And for the next fifteen minutes the cow and the sheep go on a river cruise of the Thames. A very polite game, a distraction in only the barest definition, and Sybil must tyrannize her thoughts to keep them from skipping off into tomorrow.

"I think they're tired of the water," she says at last. "Where should they go next?" She is ignored. "What about the country? Why don't they go to Downton?"

George lifts his head. "See Granny and Grandpa?"

"Yes, of course."

"And Carson?"

Sybil laughs. "Him too." Any son of Mary's is a prince to the old butler, and treated as such. They pile aboard, traveling to Downton on a train built largely by laughter, the course running smooth until William decides to gum the caboose. And then territories are marked, tempers flare. Things begin to unravel.

"George, let go of your brother's legs."

Two small feet unleash a telegraph's worth of stamping. "No William! No touching!" With a shove a little rump finds it's way hard to the floor.

And then the Wailing. Varying octaves, but all of them high. Ear piercing. Sybil collects each child in his turn, doing her best to scold and soothe accordingly. "You shall apologize to your brother for pushing." George begrudgingly complies, immature words forced through his pouting lips, then pushes him over again.

It's off to the corner for George, and Sybil sighs amidst the tears and tantrums. She has long felt that it makes no sense for the children to be so wild, not when descended directly from Matthew and his mild manners, which disposition Isobel often boasts he possessed since infancy. And while Mary certainly had her streaks, Sybil knows from experience that she usually prefers words over actions to see the day won. At least, Sybil thinks while untangling the two boys yet again, she does not recall ever being gnawed into submission.

Thirty minutes more of roughhousing and the boys begin to drag. It is close to nap time. The nursery sits in disarray, toys strewn over every inch, and George has contented himself to play quietly with blocks in the corner while Sybil keeps William from eating the book she reads to him. These are the moments, she thinks. Like the tranquility after a squall, where the wreckage seems almost beautiful in its brokenness. A hard-earned peace, only to be appreciated after battling the chaos of the nursery.

But she loves the feel of being pulled in every direction. And just as after a slew of meetings or rallies or events she breathes her deep, decompressing breaths, twining herself back together, reaping the rewards of effort. So tired. So invigorated. Harried in a way that makes one feel alive and useful.

Just as three pairs of eyes begin to droop a sharp rap breaks through the placid atmosphere, rippling through the room.

The boys startle, eyes wide and alert. Sybil darts to the door. "Nanny?"

"Thank you ever so for minding them, Lady Sybil." She bobs her head, sleeves up, white-capped, and ready to work. "You can be on with your day, now." Long strides carry her past Sybil's astonished face and into the room where she immediately sets to righting and arranging without decree, with a sense of ownership.

"But I thought – weren't you to be gone all afternoon? Tending your mother?"

But no, she wasn't. Not _all_ afternoon, naught but an hour or two for a quick visit, just as Lady Mary suggested. Long enough for a quick check in and then back to the nursery for the rest of the day.

Sybil's brow worries. She glances at the boys, their energies rewinding with the change of guard, and wavers for a moment on the threshold, biting her lip. Then she wishes the boys well and departs through the door.

Strange, she thinks, at the top of the stairs. But surely nothing nefarious.A miscommunication? Perhaps, though very unlike Mary. _Or very much like Mary_, the puppeteering ways of her eldest sister worrying her all the more down the final flight – _another Granny in the making_ – as she comes upon Jones awaiting her at the bottom step, a message on his lips:

"Before she left, Lady Mary informed me that she believes you may have left something in the garage. Something you might have forgotten. She said she thinks you may want to have a look in there."

Sybil is positive she does not want to have a look in there. Anomalies are flying in at a rapid rate, and she should take cover under her blankets, flee to the open air of the garden – such commands pummeling the forefront of her mind in retaliation to her steps, her feet sailing like wind which cannot change course for the unknown currents guiding them, hastily and unfalteringly drawing her to the garage's family entrance.

She turns a corner. Her heart gallops when she sees the gleaming handle affixed to the white door at the end of the hall, the one she has taken care never to pass through.

_It can't be. _

She walks on. _It will be the glove that went missing last week_. One of her many unpartnered earrings.

Closer she comes, and she begins to hear noises, a clangoring in the garage. Sounds she would know anywhere and which screw into her heart, twisting and tightening to the point of physical pain due the constriction, a burning chest due the long withheld breath.

She walks on. _It will be Lewis at work on one of the cars_. He'll look up with his blank face, a mention of rugby or cricket, and then she can step out for a spot of much needed fresh air.

Now flush with the door, her hand levitates a feathery whisper above the handle, fingertips teasing with touch. She knows exactly what it will be, who it will be, that she was meant to find. And she can either invite the storm inside or keep pretending that rainy days don't exist – Mary, at least, has done her the kindness of leaving the choice to her. But how often in Sybil's life had she let the lid to Pandora's box stay closed?

The door opens.

He's heard the creak of her approach so there's no turning back, no evading the consequences. He faces away from her, and she watches him go rigid as a board, then slowly turn, as if being held up, aware of the danger that stands to his back.

"Lady Sybil?" His face seems stuck in one expression, mouth slightly parted and eyes widened, fixed on her. Shocked but not ill pleased. Surprised in a way that birthday presents are a surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I _live_ here." Her defiant words are belied by their hushed over delivery. She would like to be angry, half heartedly attempts to make her next words snap: "What are _you _doing here?" They're indeed hot, but too breathy for any punch, too soft to damage.

He stares at her. "I'm fixing Lady Edith's car." One hand lazily gestures to the motor at his side, as if that explains everything. Serendipity and a shrug, and his blasé manner broils her blood and sharpens her tone, in that special way only he has ever managed.

"That much is obvious." She folds her arms. "Why?"

"Lady Edith-"

"Did she ask you to come here?"

"She-"

"And weren't you going back to Dublin today?"

"I was, but I–"

"You were? You _were_? But instead of a boat as you _were _to be you're in the garage where I live, and what I don't quite understand is why you of all people are here of all places!" The final note of her near shout hangs for a near second, long enough for impact, doubly so for regret. And Sybil's eyes repent, wide and mortified.

She looks down. "I'm sorry," she says. She looks up to him and clears her throat. "I'm sorry. You were saying?"

"I was planning to go back to Dublin today," he speaks slowly. "But then yesterday Lady Edith paid me a visit. We went for a drive and she mentioned something about the car..." He shakes his head at her bewildered look. "Anyway, she's the who let me in." He keeps his words light, his eyes on her. And she notices some tool or another gripped in his hands, the bone white knuckles clenched around it. "She told me you went out everyday," he ends on a high note, as if that is somehow an excuse.

"I usually do." Sybil closes her eyes, one hand lifting to rub at her forehead. "Actually I was supposed to have tea with a friend, but then Mary asked me to stay with the boys for the afternoon." She sighs, lowering her arms to her sides. "So not a coincidence after all."

"More like a setup."

She bites her lip. "I'm not sure why they would..."

"Neither am I. But the methods are unmistakably your sisters." An indictment, if he had said the words stripped bare. But he layers them with levity in his voice, a playful light in his eyes.

Does he expect her to laugh?

"It wouldn't surprise me," she says with caution. "They've learned from the best. But it still doesn't explain _why_."

"Well." He smiles. "I'm sure we'll figure it out eventually."

_Something's changed_. The cynic who walked away from her in Kent now seems more like the chauffeur who once charmed her youth. And then he has the audacity to smile very becomingly, with an incandescence of what she thinks is hope igniting his eyes, dimmed by her half turn and:

"Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter. Nanny's back so I can make it to my tea after all." Then she turns on a heel and walks away.

"If you like," he says quietly. She is nearly to the door. "But Sybil – "

She stops dead. Had he ever called her only that before? One night, he'd worn the words for the first time, tried them on his lips after tasting hers, also for the first time, in a garage much like this, beaten around the edges, and rustic as the smile he wore after.

She swallows, afraid of what he might see if she turns around, the panting breaths, the hand at her neck pressing against her stampeding pulse. "Yes?"

"I wouldn't want you to have to feel like you need to leave."

She frowns, trying to untangle the convolutions in his sentence. "What?"

"What I mean is – it's _your_ house."

"It's my father's house." She turns around. "And after that it will be Matthew's house."

"Still more yours than mine," he says with some steel, the words striking her like a slap, and for the first time he looks away from her face. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He runs a hand roughly through his hair. "I should be the one to leave. And I should never have come here in the first place. I don't know what I was thinking." He looks back to her, eyes remorseful, pleading in that way to turn back time. "I hope I haven't ruined your day."

"No," she whispers, a small shake of her head. _You ruined my life – _her watery eyes and soft voice taken as a miscue, and now her whisper of hope speaks on his features, a look from the old days when he hung on her every breath, her every word.

She says nothing.

After a long stretch of silence he reaches out to lay the tool on a table. "Right." A socket wrench, she recalls. "I'll just be going then."

And he begins to put away, the wrench going here, a screw driver there. Into a crusted red box that screeches with the sounds of ancient metal when he lifts it, a refrain when he sets it back down in a spidery, darkened corner. And all the while she stares at him without comment.

He moves on to collecting his things, placing his hat back on his head, putting on the brown jacket. Her eyes follow his every move as he pats absently at his various pockets and his eyes cast about the room for any wayward items. Then he mumbles a very proper kind of goodbye and walks toward the door to the outside, stepping into a shaft of natural light, and –

_I wouldn't have been any happier without him._ The touches of gold in his hair that burst in the sunlight, the monsoon of emotion in his eyes and their catastrophic power. _If we'd never met_. If he'd never come to Downton. She would have been exactly who she is now, except that she wouldn't have been aware of her unhappiness. And that kind of self-perception – Well, she thinks. It's nothing if not a gift. And she is perceptive enough in that moment to know that she does not want him to go.

_I was the one who opened the door._

"Wait!"

He is already halfway outside when her voice stops him. "Yes?"

"You shouldn't go." He doesn't need to be told twice and turns swiftly around, blue eyes boring, burning like a smothered fire lashing out for air, and she feels herself catching. "That is..." She folds her hands together and looks away. "You promised Edith you'd fix the car," she says, gestureing fervently towards the motor. "You ought to honor that."

His lips curve up, chin rising. "Ought I?"

Her heart does something like a flip flop. "She loves her cars more than anything. She'll be cross with me if she knows I sent you away."

"More than anything?"

"Most anything." She smiles. "More than my peace of mind, I know. And I'm not the one leaving for Dublin tomorrow."

"In that case..." The tension eases, like a relaxing piece of elastic, as he draws back in, back towards her, and it's as if she can feel the years slip away one by one, shrugging off with his coat as he steps further and further inside. "I wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable, especially not on my account."

But he doesn't push, and says nothing else as he drags the tool box back out, unloading its contents as he begins to work. As the minutes stretch he becomes busy about the place, moving around her when he needs to get by to fetch this or that. And she simply stands there without word or movement, a bit like a planted tree, a stationary object in the middle of the garage with nothing to do. And what had she done, all those years ago? So many lazy, uncounted hours spent in this same manner, twiddling her life away while he tinkered and bantered, observations shared and paroxysms uttered from beneath a carpet of winding metal as she smiled down. Looking back it all seems like a lesson in wasted time, except that when she _does_ look back, holds the memories out on her palm for examination, she finds in those secret hours more worth than most of her life put together.

With the revelation a restlessness returns to her bones. Muscle memory, and habit. _I remember this_.

She walks over and leans her elbows against the car. "So what's wrong with her?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"No. But it felt like the natural thing to ask."

"Let's just say that it's a small fix. It won't take me very long."

She frowns. Disappointment. An instinctual response that worries her. She begins pacing and poking about, but her legs are weary, her ordeal in the nursery catching up to her. What had she done before? When she had become tired? _I sat down_ – she thinks with a roll of her eyes.

There was a time when she used to think sitting on a running board tantamount to revolution. She sits down upon it now, drawing her mid-calf skirt down over her ankles, and all it feels like is sitting on a running board.

"Here, have my coat to sit on."

She looks up to the proffered jacket in his hand, those earnest eyes, the ones that always spoke volumes. _He wants me to take it_. She grasps the fabric in her hand – _now it feels like revolution_. She lets go abruptly, standing up. "Actually, I'd rather sit on the bench over there, if you don't mind."

He smiles tightly and shakes his head, then returns to the engine block.

The bench wobbles when she sits down, but she doesn't mind. The process has begun, and she feels herself acclimating to the sights of unvarnished wood and bare rafters. And the heady smells of petrol and oil, toxic at first but which grow in appeal over time. And given enough time it may just feel like home again.

* * *

The work takes longer than he had anticipated, and he doesn't get to fastening the last of the bolts till almost four; while the rapport rebuilds slowly, brick by brick. Careful and modulated work, both. He calculates every adjustment twice before he commits. And nothing but the inconsequentials ever pass their lips.

"Edith went to a salon with Michael," she says from the bench, his torso submerged underneath the bonnet, his bent legs sticking out. "She'll be gone for a few days, I think. Maybe a week." She waves her hand as if sharing old news. "No one can ever keep track of her schedule."

"I noticed she'd changed a bit. Grew herself a pair of wings."

"Several pairs."

"Who's attending?" he asks.

"Hm...a few from the Bloomsbury Group?"

He laughs with an ill concealed note of derision.

"What?" she asks. "You don't like them? I admit, I don't agree with all their philosophies. But they've done marvelous things for the literary world."

"And nothing else for the rest of the world."

"And what of the almighty journalists?" she says with a flare of _en garde_. "Do you all get together and organize missionary bins on your days off?"

"You mean like you?" She shrugs and smiles, neither of which he can see. But what he can see are her ankles cross and uncross, the tips of her toes swing in and out of his narrow viewing plane, a stream of unpatterned and unladylike movement. "I'm not going to embellish," he says. "We're as selfish as they come. But we inform the public, not make up stories. A much better service to the people, wouldn't you say?"

"Except that most people would rather be entertained than informed. Wouldn't you say?"

He answers with the zip of wheels as he slides out from underneath the car, a smile, and a concessional nod. He works for awhile over the top of the bonnet, and after a few toe curling sounds he stands back from the car with a grin. "There, that should do it," he says. "And not a very hard fix, either." He picks through a pile of molding rags till he finds one that passes muster, and begins scrubbing. "Probably something even Matthew's chauffeur could have done."

Sybil smiles, eyebrows arched. "You've never met Lewis."

"And what's he like?" He leans casually against the car, in that perfect way plucked from her memories, a cool smile forming as he vigorously wipes at each finger.

"The opposite of you, I suppose. He's not political, or very talkative. Not very competent, either."

"So why does Matthew keep him on?"

She looks into the floorboards, at her shuffling toe. "Oh, I don't know. He's Pratt's cousin." She looks up again and shrugs. "You know how those things go."

He tosses the rag back down onto the pile. Then he walks with determined steps to her bench, pointing to the unspoken for seat at her side.

"Do you mind?"

She shakes her head, scooting several inches closer towards the ledge. And when he sits beside her the division between them is only a hands-breadth wide, seven years long, large as the grief of wasted lives and insurmountable as regret.

Several brutal minutes pass in utter silence, save for the wall clock ticking, two hearts beating. And all the unspoken things.

She shoots up. Her feet flit to the car and she takes over his former position there. She clears her throat. "Um...how is your article coming?"

"Finished, actually." He picks up his hat sitting by his side, turning it around by the brim. "I sent it by express yesterday. By now it should be..." He leans to the side to read the hands of the clock mounted on the wall. "...published for ten hours."

"I'll have to buy a copy. Although I might not have to; Christopher will probably order a hundred of them, one for everyone he knows." She smiles. "He's very excited about it!"

"He should be. It's _very_ good."

She covers her mouth with her hand, laughter escaping through her fingers. "Your unbiased opinion?"

"They always are." His smile fades. "But I've never been the unbiased one. That was you."

She responds with a look away, demure and delicate. So like her young self. "So you think I'd make a good journalist?"

He looks thoughtful for a moment, estimating. "I think you'd make a good judge. The Honorable Sybil Crawley. Has a nice ring to it. And you'd be very fair. Very merciful."

"Sybil the Merciful." It rolls off her tongue like a sour plum. "Sounds like some dreadful name they would give to a martyr. Not that I wouldn't sooner have the chance to die for a cause than become a judge."

"And why not? You've got ambition. All your work at the charity, and the hospital –"

"A Lady's work, though," she cuts in, and laughs at the chastising shake of his head. "It's true!"

"It's still _something_ when you could be doing nothing, if you wanted." He points to her with his chin. "Besides all that, what else do you do?"

"Nothing, really. Teas, parties - you know our type of life." Her eyes glance to the side. "I don't nurse..."

"But you _are_ involved in other things." Her brows shoot to the sky, and he puts a hand up, as if to prevent her from reading too much. "Mr. Galding hasn't stopped talking about you since that night," he says. "He's mentioned the suffrage societies several times – _her passion_, I think were his exact words."

"He's very generous. While I am a member, I don't really do much. Certainly I'm no Millie Fawcett."

He scoffs with that ubiquitous disdain of his. "I should hope not. She used to give some magnificent speeches speaking out against Home Rule." His jaw sets to a grind – two bites back for every one time bitten, for the world who spat him out half chewed. But she has always been the more forgiving of the two:

"Nobody's perfect," she says mildly.

He sets his hat back down onto the bench – "Almost true" – the intensity of his gaze like a stroke against her cheek, fingers traced down her neck and spine that cause her to shiver with that feeling between fire and ice. Then he stands, pointedly, and walks towards her. "I think they should give you a chance up there on the podium."

"Oh?"

"You've many fine ideas in your head that would do better out in the open."

He's not very close. She couldn't reach out and touch him, but she's backed so far against the car she could easily climb inside. "They really shouldn't. I'm not an orator and I don't pretend to be. But I do very well at passing out flyers and attending meetings. And yesterday there was a rally at St. James. I took Gloria with me."

"I remember. Did she get up in time?"

Sybil smiles. "Just barely. And it was dreadfully hot. Gloria didn't mind, of course, but it almost put me off suffrage altogether."

Her eyes follow as he walks around to the other side of the car, the driver's side, running his hand along the doorframe. "Lady Edith said I could take her out for a few hours. I've never driven in one." Then he looks at her, nervous in a way he hasn't been, in a way she's never seen before save for two precise moments: the time before she said no, and the time before she said yes.

"Would you come out with me?" he asks.

"Oh." She looks to the side, then to the floor. "Thank you for asking. But I don't think so."

"You're right. I shouldn't have asked. But I–"

"What?"

He shrugs. And on the way down his shoulders lax as he looks with restrained dejection towards the door. "Nothing. I think I'll be off."

"Oh." She folds her hands together, stepping back as he moves past her to collect his hat and jacket. "But I hope you won't give it up," she says, her fingers twisting themselves to pieces.

"It doesn't matter." The jacket goes on. "And I'm not used to driving alone, anyway." When he shimmies into the final sleeve he turns at a distinct click that issues from the motor.

The passenger door stands open wide.

Sybil cocks her head. "It won't be for very long?"

"No." And his lips slowly curving, possessing himself of the sight, a car and a girl. "Just a quick spin."

"And we..." She sits gingerly onto the seat. She firms up her voice. "We shouldn't talk about the past."

"What past? We met last Monday, remember?" He closes her door, then gets behind the wheel.

A hand into the car. A conversation. Idle chit chat budding into something more that amounts to something like a beginning, even here at the end of the day.

And they avoid the fact that it is almost time for tea.


	7. Chapter 7: Irretrievable

_Greetings! Yes I am alive! This chapter gave me a lot of trouble, but I want to thank everyone for their patience and continued support, and the lovely reviews! I need to give a special shoutout, once again, to mrstater who has held my hand through this fic, this chapter in particular. Also a huge thanks to afraidnotscared for some pertinent feedback. I have more to say but I'll save it for the_ end.

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* * *

_She__ fumbles with the umbrella, which she can't seem to properly unclasp with her trembling hands, a clear imposter of those confident fingers that not one hour ago signed her graduation certificate before she departed the training college a fully qualified VAD – full marks for competency and deportment – with her bags packed and head held high._

_Now, standing on the side of a bleak road, she decides to give in and give up and lets the umbrella slip to the ground, for the rain is nothing more than a misty sprinkle, and in the far distance she spots the car coming around the corner, driving closer, bearing a single, stone-faced occupant. And her carefully prepared speech circles the drain, trickles out of her memory with each yard he draws nearer until not a single word remains and the car is almost upon her, and he is parked right in front her, and he is disembarking from the driver's seat and walking straight towards her. And she simply stands there, rather speechless. Motionless as the minute he said, "Please don't make fun –" and his eyes had closed in something like pure agony. And by the time she collects enough words from the scrapheap – _Hello, Branson. Thank you for picking me up_ – he has already stowed her cases in the back and stands deferentially by her side again, his officious greeting barely audible over the beat of her heart and the crescendoing patter, both looking terrorized by the thought of his handing her in, of her hand in his – of contact – even if insulated by two layers of thick winter gloves._

_She delivers them both, stepping with aplomb into the cab unassisted. He stands for awhile looking a little lost, as if he'd just taken a wrong turn. Then he rounds the car, starts up the motor, and climbs behind the steering wheel._

_The ride will be long, she knows. Two hours there, and just as long back. And they spend the first half of the way to Downton in chronic discomfort, the air inside the car silent and seething._

_But she won't let it last. She's always had determination in spades, and if she's learned anything during her time away to complement that natural doggedness it is confidence. So she gently taps against the ice – _How was the drive over? I do hope you're not too uncomfortable driving in this weather_ – hoping that with enough force and enough persistence she can eventually smash it to pieces, the hurt feelings melting into a thing of the past. _

_But his responses are perfunctory – borderline rude, she feels._

"_How is everyone getting on?" she asks._

"_Well, I think. But you would know better than I." He pauses. "M'lady."_

_So we are back to that, she thinks. She clears her throat, brushes aside a little pinprick in her heart, and moves on. "I suppose you're right. And the staff?"_

"_The same as ever, m'lady." _

"_Well." She senses a true opening. And she is determined not to fumble this one. "I suppose they would be, after only two months." She pauses. "Two months," she goes on, her tone reflective. "It's such a short time, when you really think about it. Too short for anything of consequence. But the strange thing is, I don't feel the same. Not at all. I could think myself almost a different person, after everything..." So much has changed, she wants to say. So much about _me_ has changed. "We'll have a lot to talk about, I think."_

_If ever there was ever a segue. But he responds with only:_

"_If you say."_

_She closes her eyes. Is this how he felt? When she had told him no without quite saying no? Schooled him in the brutal art of almost rejection? And he must have learned the lessons well, employing them with such finesse – the first time she's ever been on the receiving end of her own tricks and devices, and it stings something fierce._

"_Branson?" Something in her choked tone grabs him, for she catches his eyes widen, searching out her reflected face in the mirror. "You're not still angry with me, are you?"_

_A minute goes by. Maybe two. "I have no reason to be." _

"_You certainly don't seem pleased to see me."_

_She hears only the fat drops thundering on the roof of the car. It must be ages before he answers._

"_I'm not displeased." _

_So many things she hears in those three words. Longing, sadness, regret. But not anger. Perhaps she has got it wrong. Perhaps he has as little idea what to say as she does. And what can he say? Can_ they_ say? The ease is gone, their words evaporated with the heat of a burning confession, leaving only this smoke screen of cordiality behind. _

_And all the unstrung friendship, all the conversations –_

_Gone._

_By now they are driving through a downpour. She can barely see a foot beyond her, and she wonders how he manages not to drive them off the road. A tight bend comes up and he takes it smoothly, with all the expertise she has come to expect. And in that moment she is struck so forcefully with a singular, prescient thought that, though she does not mean to, she utters aloud:_

"_We can't go back, can we Branson?" Said on a sigh. And the knowledge that some corners cannot be unturned._

_His silence is answer enough for them both._

**Irretrievable**

_This is how it started._

On a drive with a girl. And the feline agility of the car, so different from the last beast he had driven, the tank of a Renault with its wide turn radius and hulking gait, reminds him of why he first determined to go into the profession: because he liked driving fast – fast and forward.

Without a thought he revs the pedal once the tires touch the street, the jerk forward sending a smile to his lips, and Sybil clamping down on her hat. "Goodness! I'd forgotten your inclination for speed."

"I can slow her down if you like," he says, his smile piquant, almost a test.

"No. I don't mind it. Just surprised, really. I've spent so many years puttering along with Lewis, you'll remember. And he never drives over thirty."

Grantham House and its monolithic façade quickly shrinks from view, gives way to the tousled tree tops that perforate the street – a thriving lane that a late afternoon cool has specked with opportunistic perambulators, deserting servants hoping to escape the heat of the attics, slews of utilitarian nannies taking the children out for an airing, all of them all at once trading shouts and greetings, glorious momentum strewn across the convening space.

Yet at the first intersection he stalls. He had not planned beyond getting her inside the car.

_What shall we do next?_ had been the first question she had asked him all those nights ago, after the kiss that had ignited the car and their hearts all the way to Scotland and a forever unrealized life beyond, and it is the same question he poses now.

"I have no idea," she replies with a slight laugh. "Drive?"

"And where would you like to go?"

She pauses so significantly that he thinks he will be unprepared for the depths of her answer. But then she turns away with a sloppy, diffident shrug.

"Anywhere but here," she says, her eyes on the sky.

Faint wind pulls at their hats, rustles the air like a sleepy wave goodbye. He chooses the path forward, unsure of what to say next as they weave a discursive path through Kensington. His eyes keep little to the road and stray much to her, her face caught up in the untrackable wind as she tucks strands of refugee hairs behind her ears, every so often smiling furtively to the open air, and he's reminded of how she used to wear her emotions like a carefully selected outfit, each expression exacting in its presentation of image. How at times he might catch sight of a single frayed seam – _you're too scared to admit it _– the occasional undone button that exposed the illicit layers clinging to skin, to her breasts and the beating heart beneath.

The traffic grows thin, the dashing scenery with more strokes of green than grey. And above them he sees the mottled clouds of morning have thickened over, wrapped up the sky with an unremitting shade of twilight that precludes the notion of shifting shadows, that perceptible passage of day into evening. When time seems almost superfluous, better marked by circadian calls than the transience of the sky.

"Are you hungry at all?" he asks.

She looks to him, eye unblinking. "Starving."

"I wish you'd said something." He glances sidelong in her direction. "If you'd wanted to stop...

"I've never driven in an open car before. I was enjoying the experience too much to stop." And again she gives that small, secretive smile, like an enclave in her heart partway revealed, perhaps seeing the light of day for the first time in years. "No wonder Edith loves it so much," she murmurs.

"We're a fair ways out from Grantham Place. We could stop somewhere, if you fancy a bite?"

She doesn't hesitate in nodding once her ascent, and he kicks the car into a u-turn.

"What would you like to eat?"

"Oh, I'm not very particular."

A thought occurs to him. One of those rare strokes of genius that always play out perfectly in one's head. "If that's the case..." He grins. "Have you ever been to a chip shop?"

"Of course I have." She laughs brightly. "Don't look so put down. I'd be a rather pathetic thirty year old Londoner if I'd never had fish and chips before."

"I suppose I was hoping I could show you something new. But I should have known."

"It was a very nice thought, if perhaps a little short sighted." Her smile widens, plots hatching at the corners. "Though with one plan foiled I suppose it's my turn to ask…"

"What?"

"Whether or not you've ever had afternoon tea in a London tea room." She levies a cockeyed smirk – _Naturally_ – to his expected shock, a light of cool triumph in her eyes as though she'd just announced checkmate.

_But when had she learned how to play_? "I think you know the answer to that. And also what my answer is going to be to that."

"Nonsense," she says, the posh tone in her voice at high volume. "There's a first time for everything."

* * *

Sybil knows the lay of the city better than he, and verbally directs him down side streets she is mostly sure of, around corners called out at the last minute. After what is not an insubstantial amount of circling and backpedaling they eventually arrive, his nerves for the most part intact, and he pulls up to the curb in front of a smart looking tea shop, a roomful of smartly dressed patrons sipping and chatting which he glimpses through the floor to ceiling glass walls.

Inside the mood is airy and refined, halos and harps, and every linen a lily white. An austere man moves forward to greet them who then converses with Sybil without ever managing to once look her in the eye, or to him at all, leading them to a small table that sits in the very back of the room, away from the bulk of the clientele, away from the prying glass walls. Tucked inside like a dirty little secret, and he lowers into his chair with all the comfort of one sitting on a cushion of nails.

Sybil eases down into her seat across from him with a customary grace, back erect as she deftly crosses her ankles underneath her chair, assuming that signature of a Lady that all but screams breeding, hands nested in her lap which she keeps perfectly mannered and still; but her mouth is in unrest, moving into that familiar, teasing curve – _Really, Branson_ – as she watches him pull at his neck with one hand. "You look as if you're going to fly out the window."

He lowers his arm, his smile unapologetic. "They haven't made me feel exactly welcome here. You'll pardon if I'm a bit on edge, maybe plot out an escape route just in case."

"I'm sorry for that. But I've been here before so you can rest assured: they won't be serving your head with tea." Then she takes command of the table, leaning slightly in – "You should try to relax" – imparted as if a great secret that only he was clueless enough not to know.

She never did mince her orders, especially the ones directed at him. And he tries to obey, to loosen his muscles and disarm his posture despite the unpersuadable feeling that it is something like open season on his wardrobe, a good number of the other customers all but pinning up bullseyes with their cursory looks of disdain.

"Not easily done in this crowd. I feel about a dozen or more eyes on us." _Us_ – because he knows they're not a spectacle simply because he's _here_. It's because he's here with _her_. "I know what they must be thinking."

Her brittle smile suggests that she knows it too. "Let them think. People always do. And you shouldn't bother with getting upset. It won't change anything or do anyone a jot of good. You'll simply have to ignore them, it's the only thing for it."

"Sage advice from the one who fits in here like a glove." It comes out honestly, more brutally than he wanted, as the truth so often does, and he shuts his eyes at her smarted expression. _A mouth with wings,_ his mother is wont to rue, _flying head first into traffic. _And his mind, his intentions, never able to keep abreast. "Sorry," he offers with a dip of his head. "That wasn't polite."

"Impolite? I suppose that's a start."

He holds his palms out. "I'm sorry." There's nothing more he can say, no speeches he can give that will rewrite time. Of all people she should know that.

She yields. "It's all right." It seems his mother is not the only one with an easy read on his fallibility, or possessed with the ability to forgive them. "And I won't be cross with you over it, because you're absolutely right, of course. But that doesn't mean what I told you was wrong. Try living in a fishbowl for thirty years and I'm sure you'd agree with every word of it. This?" Her eyes gesture about the room. "This is only a small taste of how I've spent my entire life. I speak from experience, not because it's easy."

The matter seems to drop with her gaze, and they settle into their menus around an awkward pause, Branson still mindful of the patrolling eyes, the conjectures no doubt being thrown about like confetti. He wonders if anyone here might recognize her (probably) and if word of this will somehow migrate back to her affiliates (definitely) – family, of course, and friends. _Suitors_.

His hands, the most restless part of his body, feel suddenly agitated. They turn over the menu, the curlicue lettering reminding him of the uncivil glare on their host's face as it was placed in front of him.

Of course this whole place is chockablock with reminders. Of her, of them. Of all the things that stood in between. Class and money, that diaphanous notion of _respectability_. He had somehow forgotten all about those original barriers and their great magnitude, overshadowed as they were by the schism of betrayal, the details somehow fallen into the breach of _seven years_.

Mere hours ago he had nearly felt like his old self, shiny brass buttons and handfuls of contraband pamphlets – _it's not very likely_ – sifting under the car with his jacket off and her limbs hanging all over the garage. But now his initial motives stall under the scrutiny, under the sound of fine china clinking, the countermelody of highbrow accents that sing through the stratifying space.

"What do you like?" And her voice one of them, alluring and evocative. And so very very above him.

He looks at her peculiarly and not altogether kindly. "Whatever you have."

The waiter materializes after a few minutes of complete silence. "Victoria sponge," she says. "Watercress for the sandwiches. And some lemon curd will be nice, I think?" She looks to him appealingly.

"Very nice." And on top of their ragged history and the palace in Kent and _it is a high price_ –

He wonders why he ever thought he could make this work.

The tea arrives just then, and she pours for both of them without spilling a drop. Branson lifts his cup and takes a sip of the most expensive tea he has ever tasted. And it is indeed luxurious, for a moment the simple pleasure capsizing everything else. Rich and smooth, far better than the pot of granular tar he drinks every morning.

"No milk and sugar?" He startles at her voice and glances up, his lips still on the rim. She appears somewhat aghast, the enlarged whites of her eyes holding traces of disgust.

With cautionary speed he lowers the cup back down to the saucer. "Sometimes I do," he says slowly. "Sometimes I don't. After all the years of coffee I usually prefer it plain."

"Oh." She looks at him with something like pity.

He smiles, beyond amused, as he brings the cup back to his lips. "You think it's strange." Then takes a relishing sip.

The accoutrements near at hand, she pointedly plops two spoonfuls of sugar in her cup, followed by a healthy portion of cream. "It _is_ strange," she says with a clinking stir. "And not only because –" The faint scrape of her spoon against the porcelain wall falters for only a second – long enough to tell him that she, too, is remembering the single spoonful of sugar he poured into his cup of tea at the Swan Inn. "What's truly strange is that I'm here at all," she dovetails without a hitch. She removes her spoon and takes a sip. "You know I don't even usually take afternoon tea. I don't usually set aside the time. And I confess I'm not very fond of the atmosphere in this place. A bit stifling, wouldn't you agree?"

"I might agree. So much that I could wonder why you'd bring me here at all."

She looks at him through lowered lashes. Though more sizing him up than anything like flirting. "No ulterior motives, I'm sorry to inform you. It was the first place that popped into my head, really. And then I thought... 'why not let him have a little peek into the other side?' You may come to appreciate the experience as a writer, if nothing else."

"How very thoughtful of you."

She smiles. "I know."

The tray-laden waiter comes bearing rest of their order. Branson watches her eyes light up as she digs in greedily, as if this were the first meal of her day rather than the penultimate – _starving_. And he does wonder, in passing, if her appetite has been as pitiful as his own, of late.

For his part, he feels suddenly ravenous.

After a time of silent eating she says, tone somewhat bouncing, "Now tell me: how do you like it? Your first _real_ afternoon tea?"

"And what were all the other thousand teas in my life? Just practice for _this_?"

"Why must you always be contrary when you know exactly what I mean?" she huffs, though he interprets her charmed smile to mean that she knows exactly why, and she rather likes his reasons.

"It's very good tea," is all he concedes.

"Very diplomatic." She flicks her head out to the hostile jungle of the room. "And what about the rest of it?"

He chews his last bite with feigned thoughtfulness.

"It was very good tea."

Then she laughs, fully and bereft of any constraints, that artifice she can take on and off like a hat. He remembers that she had never used to wear it around him.

He doesn't think she wears it now.

The thought emboldens him.

Branson sets down his cup – a solid sound to go with his solid look that erodes her laughter, and she's dead silent when he says, "That day in Kent," his voice walking on needles.

She coughs, but not in the fragile way of a ruse. As though succumbing, and he grips the arms of his chair. But she quickly composes herself, lowering the serviette from her mouth to reveal a stoic face.

"What about it?"

"I remember you said –" Her barbed face causes doubt but he pushes forward. "You said you'd read my work."

She nods, her expression turning opaque. "I have read some..."

"Then you knew I'd become a journalist?"

"Yes." She glances down. The twitch in her arms suggests movement that he cannot see. Then she looks up to face him directly. "And I knew more than that, actually. I knew you first got a job with _The Times _out in Dublin."

He steadies himself with a sip. "That's right." Has tea ever tasted so dry?

"But then you changed papers for a small radical publication. The one you work for now."

As if he'd swallowed the Sahara. "_The Republic Press_. I quit my old paper and switched over."

"After the war." And without saying he knows exactly which war she means. Mentions of _her_ war incur a _de profundis_ of emotion to eclipse her face. But there is none of that now, her eyes uncomplicated, gentle with that ecumenical style of compassion which she now lays on thickly for his sake, enough that he wonders briefly if she'll reach out and stroke his hand as if an injured puppy.

"Yes," he says. "After the war." He pushes his empty plate forward, unable to appreciate the confession that she has been keeping tabs on him. "The situation there, it got a bit..."

"What?"

After a moment he says: "Complicated."

"I see." She asks quietly: "You were on the losing side, yes?"

He almost laughs. "Well according to your government we're all winners, aren't we? Didn't we get our freedom? Or a close consolation: 'the freedom to achieve freedom'." Now he does laugh. "They probably think I should be grateful."

"I didn't condone the decisions. But you can't argue that it put an end to the fighting."

"I never would."

"And then the aftermath…I heard it was quite brutal."

"It was."

She brings her hands from her lap and folds them onto the table. "Were you ever hurt during the conflict?"

The question startles him. "Not badly. Nothing like what you saw in the Great War." He hasn't thought about those minor abrasions, certainly nothing that compares to the massacre of his heart, for years. "I was a bit reckless in those days. Sometimes it caught up with me and I'd find myself in a close shave or two." He smirks. "Why? Did you worry?"

Her eyes penetrate.

"Of course I did."

And he wants to reach across the table and take her hand, skip to the car and keep on driving all the way into next morning _– fast and forward_ – for in their private world a single look or word had meant so much, and in this nothing has changed at all.

_Nothing has changed at all._

* * *

When the matter of the bill arises, Sybil humors no argument about who shall be responsible. "I can't allow you to pay, not when I demanded we come here."

"Demanded? I seem to recall a consensus, that it was all done properly, very democratically."

Her mouth drops. "I practically had to drag you through the door!"

And he's swayed, with only a trifling bit of more fuss, to her naturally correct view. But back in the car, in his domain, he feels a resurgence of conviction, and decides to revisit the topic.

"I'm still not comfortable with it," he says, shaking his head.

"With what?" she asks, head recumbent against the seat, a sleepy smile and her eyes half lidded – the picture of post meal bliss. "With me paying?" She scoffs. "You should know that I'm starting to think you have a very odd set of scruples for a self-avowed Socialist. Whatever became of your venerated Mills, your equality between the sexes?"

"How is it equal if you pay for everything and I pay for nothing? If you truly wanted equality then we would have each paid for our own."

"Now you're just splitting hairs."

"Or you'd let me pay for something else."

She turns up her chin. "But then we'd be faced with a dilemma."

"And that is…?"

"The obvious one." Her mouth quirks up. "Where shall we go next?"

He laughs. "Some place I can afford!"

* * *

With the steady drizzle dropping wet splotches on their car and clothing, they decide to leave the motor in a covered parkway. "Edith will just kill me if the seats get ruined. And not nicely, either. Slowly…."

He chuckles. "Painfully?"

"Of course!"

He pulls the car into their numbered slot. "Then we shouldn't risk it. Maybe if she'd do it quickly, but we can't have _that_." And the laughter reaches her eyes as she slides out of the car and they agree to continue on via the old fashioned way.

They stroll unhurriedly. A paved walk along the Thames, unoccupied due the rain and darkening hour save for the occasional darting commuters forced to dodge the pair as they seek home and shelter.

"Sometimes I wonder where they're going," she says of the shadowy, averted faces. On a normal day hers would number among them. "Where they're coming from, who they're going home to."

Their dampening hats go unheeded as they move past Whitehall and the Horse Gardens, whole volume's worth of history a mere finger stroke away – a city that speaks and breathes of conquest – Trafalgar square and its imposing column not too far off, heralding the way for the grand museum and its host of commandeered artifacts.

"A reminder," he remarks. "That's why they built it. So everyone will remember what happens to resistance."

"To the ones who try to resist?"

He nods. So not quite a reminder then, she thinks. _A lesson_.

It feels strange to her – not awkward, more the bemusement of detouring down an unfamiliar route home – when she considers how very little they had ever walked together. They were always standing when in hiding, driving when out in the open. A delineated courtship stripped of the bare essentials – and yes, very strange, given the pledge of _till death_ they had nearly surrendered.

And yet she'd never known another so well.

_Stop_. She's drifted too far in reverse. Best to keep moving forward.

"Where would you like to go?" she asks.

They profess themselves bankrupt of ideas. In truth, she might apply herself to think of a few, but she's quite content in their desultory course. It seems suited to them, a version of them – _can you sneak me around the back?_ – and resurrects a facsimile of those former, nomadic pleasures. Before London, even before the war. In those quixotic days of idleness when she had never claimed a destination to her day, and as long as they never stopped moving she could simply let her feet be her guide, the horizon her compass.

But all that's packed up and done away with now, for the adroit Sybil Crawley whose schedule is written in permanent ink weeks in advance. Now she structures and plans, and she adheres. And when she does step out of the neatly drawn lines it is for the briefest furlough, as if catching her breath before the next marathon.

Then why does she walk with him _pari passu_ under a burgeoning drizzle, no plan of going anywhere or doing anything? And a cresting feeling that she never wants to fix their way?

"Sorry if the rain's a bother," he says. "You can have my jacket if you like."

"No. I'm very comfortable." It's not very cold, and the sprinkle is refreshing after the frazzling heat of the previous week. "I like it," she says. "I haven't gone walking in the rain since I lived in Yorkshire. I hardly go walking at all anymore – at least, just to walk. I do walk, but I don't go _walking_."

"I work at least ten hours a day. I know what you mean."

"But it's so odd, really, when I think what a large part of my life it once was. I used to spend hours out in the park. I knew every tree and could mark every change. Now I hardly even notice when the seasons change."

Before passing under Charing Cross Bridge they stop to admire the agitated waters. Droplets bounce off the murky surface of the river and draw her eyes upward, to the silhouetting ship hulls and their cabin lights flickering on, up the masts and to the crow's nests, blustering flags set against the barely lit horizon that fades into a blackening sky.

She startles slightly. She had not noticed the late hour.

Then the street lamps set ablaze one by one and the glow of yellow fluorescence falls across his face, a mixture of shadow and light that is very reminiscent and very near and which she abruptly looks away from, refuses to dwell on.

His hand submerges into the layers of his jacket, comes out again bearing a packet of cigarettes. One of them he fits into his mouth, another he holds out to her.

"Would you like one?" he asks casually, without challenge.

She should shake her head no. Demure with a smile. For anyone who knows anything of the ever sensible Sybil Crawley knows that she does not smoke. Frightfully too level headed for all that nonsense.

But her hand extends and then she's leaning into the matchstick held securely between his forefinger and thumb, leaning back again with an expert puff as if she'd been born with a cigarette between her lips, and those lips smiling unreservedly, invoking the sounds of church bells and lorry horns, not merely existing but proclaiming existence.

After a few intakes she holds the fag out for contemplation, reviewing it with a perverse eye. "I haven't smoked since the war." The revelation slips out with a note of wonder. The war was very long ago – _truly ages and ages ago_ – the memories washed out, faded around the edges like a well-loved photograph.

"That's probably for the best. They say they're terrible for you." He follows it up with a well-timed and not wholly disingenuous cough. "See what I mean?"

She itches for a stethoscope to check his lungs right then and there – _and his heart_ – mustn't forget about_ that_, the poor tattered thing. But she resumes her smoking with a shrug.

"So many things are," she says. "And yet we do them anyway." She laughs. "Do you know, I used to hear the most absurd things when I was a nurse. Things I would have never imagined from the outside – alcoholic doctors performing surgeries, nurses addicted to morphine. We'd go out on breaks behind the hospital." She smiles. "_Smoke_ breaks. The other nurses and I – the _real _nurses, so they would say – and I'd listen to them complain, to all their exaggerated stories. I used to love it. I called it storytime – not to anyone else, of course, just in my head. And it was far more entertaining and insightful than anything my governess ever read to me."

He listens as one gazing at a fond memory, and she looks at her shoes. He knows all this already, must know – for hadn't she gushed and poured, the pitcher of her life overflowing with nowhere else to go but his listening ears, every night for two years running? But it feels good to say it aloud again after all this time, almost like proof that that time in her life ever existed.

"Do you miss it?" he asks.

She looks up, sighs at the rising strands of smoke dangling between her fingers, the bit of beauty in the dispersing vapor. "I miss a lot of things." How the smoke clings for only a second before vanishing. "But I try not to dwell too much on all of that, not anymore. I have so much. What right have I to ask for more?"

"More is a very broad term. If we're going to commodify fulfillment we should at least start by admitting that the goods can't all be bought and sold." He taps down a column of ash. "I may be a staunch socialist but even I don't think the rich have everything."

She laughs lightly around an exhale of smoke. "That's very generous of you."

"I do mean what I said."

"And so do I. Most people like you wouldn't give a second thought to the assertion that since I was born with money I have no right to dream of anything. Sometimes I start to believe it myself." She stares out again over the inky water. "But it's just an illusion, isn't it? It may seem like I can do whatever I please, whenever I want. How can I not, with all the money in the world? But it's not my money, is it? It all belongs to my father. And he will always have the final say on the matter."

"He let you nurse during the war."

"That was the war. A very rare exception, he would say. An aberration." She sucks in a long drag. "And perhaps he's right."

"He's not right. We both know that. You do good work,_ real_ work with your charities, doesn't matter if you get paid. That speaks for itself. And look at your sister, writing for that magazine."

"She doesn't earn enough to make a living. Michael supports her."

He seems troubled now, those cast off looks when she used to walk away without a backward glance or answer. Had she done that? With her cold water realism? _He should get used to it._ She's had her feet on the ground for seven years running, and they can't both live in the clouds.

She takes another puff.

"Let's toss logistics under the bridge for a minute." He steps closer, the heat off his skin an unction to the chill that has begun to permeate. "What _do_ you want? What _more_?"

She draws her elbows in. Her lips press into a clamshell seal. It's never a treat to speak of one's failings and she nearly begs off. But one of his acute looks, almost embarrassing in its sincerity, manages to pry her loose:

"I did have a thought of going to university. A women's college, of course. And Papa was indulgent enough to hire out a tutor for a few years…. but it never came to anything, so I gave it up." She withholds the rest, about the financial blunders and the ensuing austerity – enough to keep up appearances but short of educating a daughter who ought to have been married years ago anyway. An old, well-kept secret suddenly pounces and her mouth runs away with it. "Sometimes I've thought –" She covers her mouth in an attempt to contain the tumbling laughter that is almost wild. "I'll take off with the cutlery and run away to America!"

He laughs as if on cue, with that marveling gaze of his as if he'd just discovered a new species. Then he says too soberly:

"You should."

A wave of her hand, shooing away the suggestion.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Why not? They're just forks and knives, even if they can be traced back to the Tudor reign."

"I wouldn't make it out of the pantry, let alone the house. Daughter of the House or not, I have no doubt Carson would have my head on a platter if I tried pinching the silver!"

"Getting past Carson would be a trick." He smiles. "But I know your abilities." He throws his stub into the ground, crushes it under his sole. "But let me ask you something? If you could be anywhere in the world, would you be here?"

_Here is a very broad term. _"Here?" On the banks of the Thames, a fag dangling between her fingers as she stares into his eyes? She daren't answer. And anyway, those eyes are inquisitive, not aching. What he means is here – in London, in England – frittering her life away in a manner she was meant to, yet never wanted.

"No." She shakes her head. "No, I wouldn't."

"Then why are you?"

_Because I promised._

God help her, she nearly opens her mouth. _Stop. _Pull up the brake, shift the gear back into drive. Backward thinking will get her nowhere, for all that has passed away, passed away. Shut up in the attic along with her harem pants. Sybil knows some hearts are beyond resuscitation, that not everything can be so easily coapted as bone and flesh – learned from poring over the thick anatomy books bought on a whim one afternoon with her allowance, the ones she thumbs through regularly without any purpose – _mitral, tricuspid, aortic, pulmonary_ – and they lay open on her desk or nightstand, tomes from her old life of which she now has no need yet can't seem to relinquish.

Tomorrow she'll move them up into the attic as well.

"I like living in London," she says, an answer without answering. "I like the activity and freedom of the city. Yorkshire is…. it has its charms, certainly. But for all the wide space I found it terribly claustrophobic after a while." She laughs. "I suppose one might find that a rather strange paradox."

"I don't find anything strange anymore."

A crack of thunder parts the sky further.

After she takes her eyes off the sky she flicks her spent cigarette to the ground. She doesn't stamp it out, watches the cascading water quickly extinguish the smoldering tip. _We'll be drenched before long._ "And what about you?" she asks. "Do you like living in Dublin?"

"I like it well enough to stay."

"And where would you go, if not there?"

His eyes glance up as he thinks. Then move back down to her, a smile slowly forming. "Some place with wide streets and little traffic."

She laughs. "Interesting choice. I must say I've never thought of it quite that way before."

"Well, you wouldn't. Not if you were always being driven everywhere by someone else."

She observes him for half a minute with a gathering look of perturbation. "I'm rather tired of you always making assumptions about my life. How do you know how I get around? Perhaps I've learned to drive? Perhaps I take the tube." He laughs heartily at that. "Why not?" she demands. "I could be like all those smart career women and their terribly practical skirts." She pinches the hem of her frock, giving a small tug. "I'm even wearing one right now!"

"You do _not_ take the tube."

"And just how would _you_ know that?"

Keen eyes appraise her, the defiance in her smirk. "You have _never_ taken the tube." He simply laughs at her glowering. "If I'm wrong, tell me I'm wrong!"

She crosses her arms. "Whether you're wrong or right is not the material point."

"Maybe not. But at the end of the day it's all that matters."

He periods it with another laugh, musical like all the notes of his mouth. _He must not remember_. In fairness, he probably can't recall even a quarter of the words he'd said to her, so many fighting all at once to get out. But she does. Every single one. Stored up in a predetermined corner of her brain, hoarded away like food for the winter, the reserves dipped into whenever she needs a sustaining bite.

_All the matters._ That one she goes back to quite frequently.

Although she often wishes she didn't, that she could have a worse memory. Even more that she had found a way to export her heart without the inconvenience of using her tongue. It always seems to falter at that particular point. So much easier to simply let him do the talking for her – _all that matters – _for those were her words too, she just didn't know it then. And then he left, packed up his pretty little speeches and took them all away – and with him went a part of her voice.

And with him near she feels herself claiming it again.

"If that's the case...why don't we go right now?"

His eyebrows shoot up. "What?"

"The underground. You're absolutely right, of course – I've never been. Never so much as stepped foot on a platform. And since we haven't yet decided where to go, why not there?"

"Because we have a car, we don't need to." She ignores him, passes by his incredulous face as she begins walking briskly towards the entrance to Charing Cross station, just visible there beyond the bridge. He follows rapidly after, amped voice echoing as they pass under the stone ceiling. "Because it's a mad idea and it'll be pouring out soon!" Two steps from the tube entrance he catches up to her and arrests her arm. "We should get ourselves inside before we're soaked."

"The underground _is_ inside, at least – well, it can't be considered _outside_, surely. And we'll have to wait out the storm one way or another, so it may as well be there. And I'll even spare your pride and let you pay for my fare." She descends, giving a fractious toss over her shoulder: "If you can afford it, that is!"

"Easy, there." He follows her down. "The wealthy aren't allowed to make jokes about money."

"Good, because I don't have a single penny to my name." He throws her an unconvinced look as they approach the register. "What? I'm spinster with no job, living off my married sister like a complete sponger."

Branson nods his head towards the clerk at the cashier, who watches their antics with an end-of-the-work-shift level of tolerance. "How far are we going?" he asks Sybil doing a brief study of the map pinned to the wall.

"Not far. Just to the park. Then we can walk back to the car."

Branson tips his head. "What the lady said." And the clatter and excitement of the next train barreling down the tracks drowns everything else out, the utter newness in such a small thing, the jolting thrill she'd not felt for years, her small clap of glee under a pair of devouring eyes, the tired responses of the clerk – everything but the insupportable sight of Branson fishing through his pockets at a leisurely pace.

"Oh, do hurry up or we'll miss it!"

He shrugs. "Then we'll miss it. They come every fifteen minutes, you know."

"I don't want the one in fifteen minutes. I want _this_ one!"

The threat of her paying speeds up the exchange, and they step onto the platform to meet the train (with five minutes to spare) watching the doors open like the pages of a new book, the adventures she always thought to have.

* * *

Plenty of open seats to choose from, but she decides to stand, clasp her hand around the hanging straps and pretend herself a working girl, a part of the contiguous mass of commuters on her way home from a hard day.

Branson shrugs. "Suit yourself. I'm going to sit." Newspapers litter the floor and he leans over to pick one up, buries his nose into the crease.

"See you in an hour?" she quips.

His eyes peek over, pages rustling. "I'll have you know I am perfectly capable of setting down the paper whenever I please."

"Very well. Put it down now and talk to me."

He doesn't quite manage – it's an evening edition with an article on rising unemployment bewitching him from the second page – and instead he reads excerpts aloud and they discuss the varied headlines: Boilerplate fallout from the general strike, a blurb on Trudy Ederle's training for the next Channel attempt. (Of course she'll make it this time! And smash all the records besides!) The international news is more colorful: snippets of supposed gangster activity out of Chicago (This reads like a wireless drama - where are the sources?) and a full center spread on the growing insurgency in China.

Branson frowns at the descriptions of the lined and uniformed men, one hundred thousand strong, preparing themselves for the internecine invasion northward. He feels the fervor through the ink, transposed thousands of miles away. But in the deepest chambers of his heart, he pities them.

"I would never deny them their chance but it'll be low level chaos for years. And they're one hundred times the size of Ireland." _One hundred times the bloodshed_. His stomach does figure eights at the thought and he quickly folds up the paper – _enough news for the day_ – and absorbs himself with the dents in her brow as she considers.

She folds back a corner of the paper and glances over the highlights. "They want unification, and a republic." She smiles. "Sounds vaguely familiar. And now 'The People,' as you would call them, will finally have a chance for a country of their own making." She appraises him with curious eyes. "Are you not happy for it?"

"Of course I am. But that doesn't mean I haven't learned the hard way that revolution, civil war, all of _this_ –" He gestures at the paper. "Look, it's not the business they make it out to be in books or papers. I used to read about glory and banner waving, conviction put to action. And there is all that, definitely – eventually – but the road to get there…it's bloody work, Sybil – you saw it during the war. The collateral all looks the same, doesn't matter why the call to arms."

Young men, some even younger than her – sightless, limbless. Yes, she remembers it all. But would have it been any better, she wonders, if they'd cycled through her care on better pretensions? His distraught eyes makes her think no.

They exit at St. James. A short walk through the park would be very grand, he agrees.

On an anfractuous path through the green she asks the one question that had been on her mind since she first heard the word "journalist."

"Is that why you never pursued politics? Because you were disappointed that the reality never quite matched up?"

"That, and the closer I got, the more I found it didn't suit." He kicks a stray pebble from their path. "But that's just life, isn't it? We come out, babes in the woods, these big eyes and big ideas about the world. We're all born to be let down at some point." But even as he speaks the words, and though once upon a time his life had felt more like a slow death, he doesn't feel a trace of their truth. He's not sure he can remember what disappointment ever felt like, for she's by his side again, and all he can see are the bright spots. "But it hasn't been all bad, has it?"

He smiles at her.

She smiles back.

"No. Not at all."

"If I looked back at where I started…" He laughs. _Where I started_ – and after all this she still doesn't know about the one bedroom tenement awash with disease and despair. "Twenty years ago I couldn't have imagined being where I am now. Twenty years ago I would have considered myself a made man driving a car for His Lordship. Now I'm a writer at a newspaper, and before this decade's through Ireland will have its freedom. True freedom. Nothing my grandfather would have ever thought possible. So there've been some bumps, I won't lie. But there have been many fine moments." He stops, eyes unsure as he watches her mouth bunch with a pent up smile. "What is it?"

"Nothing. But I was just thinking how that sounds more like you."

"Does it? I'm glad."

The sky reopens in that refractory way of summer thunderstorms. Sizzling air and curtains of water assail, chase them under a copse of densely layered trees, a tall, lone lamp offering a cocoon of light to their dry den surrounded on all sides by walls of darkness and pouring water.

"I suppose a walk was a rather foolish idea," she laughs, shaking out her skirt.

"I've never been opposed to a bit of foolishness." He takes his hat off and dumps out what must be a full cup of water. "Or a lot."

She laughs. They must almost shout to be heard over the thundering patter. "I hope it's not ruined!"

"It's just a bit of water. It'll survive." He steps close enough to flick the low brim of her hat. "You should be more concerned about yours. This flimsy thing doesn't look like it would last through a stiff wind, much less this downpour."

She strips the soaked cloche from her crown and rings it out. Then she crumples it up and nearly tosses the thing aside like an old rag before she remembers:

"Crikey." She groans. "I think this is Edith's!"

"I suppose she'll have a reason to murder you after all."

"I'll destroy the evidence," she pertly declares. "And if she asks after it I'll put on my sweetest smile and tell her I lent it to Mary ages ago."

"And they call you the kind sister."

"If I must put up with their bickering I should be allowed to exploit it once in awhile."

They laugh and the rain sharply adjourns. And in the curt absence of noise she feels the absence of everything else, of people and life and activity, everything gone but the two of them standing, marooned in this remote and darkly lit corner, truly alone for the first time today since the garage – _the garage_, which seems like a lifetime ago, reminds her of sleeveless black and gold satin worn on a "winter night, and she wraps her arms around herself, suddenly shivering.

"I've enjoyed today. Being with you," he says, very softly yet perfectly heard owing the thin distance between them, one step, half a step, by whatever measure close enough that he is not reaching when he lifts his hand to push back a coil of wet hair plastered over her cheek, to slide it under the curve of her ear, the warmth of his fingers on her chilled face branding a slow path down to the bend between cheek and neck where it finally releases, and she shivers again.

She closes her eyes. _Oh, yes_.

Rather a foolish idea, indeed.

Levees bursting, the floods rushing in; Sybil pulls back from his incendiary touch, searches frantically over his shoulder like trapped prey. "We should get back soon." The air beyond is pitch black. "It must be…"

He lowers his arm. "What?"

"It's so dark...it must be late." Her stockings will be ruined. And everyone will worry. "I was supposed to be home for dinner."

"Not very late. Not as late as you're thinking."

"I should go home. We both should."

"Not yet?" he says. "Sybil." His voice wrenches the word. "Please stay? Just a bit longer. We could talk – I don't like to think of us parting without –"

"No. No, please don't. We said we weren't going to talk about any of that."

"Why not? How can we not? How can we leave each other without saying _anything_?"

_Untrue_, she thinks. For they have already said so much. Not with so many words – but how unnecessary they are, when every look, smile, gesture roams up and down the aisles of memory, does the work that full paragraphs could never, a sonata in a blink, a treatise in his tempestuous eyes that always felt too much, said too much, a flurry of feelings and words tossed together in the wind. And how he had once looked to her as if she were his only port in the storm, the same way he looks at her now, the anchor never drawn up even after all these years.

But how had he ever looked at her any differently? When she is so beautiful, so vitalizing – the freest of spirits – or so she now appears in the flesh, undistorted by his incriminating memory. No longer the harbinger of ruthless farewells, now she looks every inch the perfect counterpart to the girl – the most beloved, the most cherished – who had actually said _yes, _never in his wildest fantasies could he have believed he would own the memory of her telling him _yes_ – the rest is detail and she will give up everything – _yes_,_ you can kiss me. _

"Today was wonderful," she says. "But it's just one day. And tomorrow we'll go home and we can remember how well it all ended."

_If you'll let it._ He hears the silent plea, snuck between the shudders in her breath. But all he can think of his her and him, and the clean scent surrounding that arouses one of his earliest memories of them – _summer rain – _that long ago day when he'd chased her through the rainfall and she'd turned up her chin with that polished grit and declared, "I _always_ keep my promises."

"But you can't tell me that you didn't feel…. that there was nothing!"

Her mouth parts. For a second no sound emerges. "There was..." The words die. Her lungs are not up to the task.

"What?" he urges.

_There was everything_. But for her the environment has an adverse effect. This pelting rain! Maddening and disruptive, so like the last time they stood in the rain together, the awkward reunion after precipitous action had shut down their friendship like a castle gate.

And she watches the reprisal unfolding– under an archway, under a canopy of leaves – both times his intentions set to full throttle and she helplessly along for the ride – his doffed hat and effusion of words, his hat dropped somewhere next to hers as he leans forwards into her – whole years compressed down into seconds, into this one moment when their lips meet and she does nothing to stop it, even welcomes it with a base desire that overrides years of strict conditioning, opening her mouth, moving her that much closer into the folds of his clothing so she can savor the sordid heat off his skin – _oh, yes – _and the firm hand at her back that gives no illusion of restraint, requires no prompting to press and pull, which aggravates the need and drives her arms up and around as they fall further.

It's a kiss that does not take its time, abrasive and fulfilling. Long lasting, as the first time, and that thought is where her senses first falter, for there was a future in that kiss, an impetus, the first of many. And this is nothing like that. This is a desperate grasp for something that no longer exists, impossible to reconstruct – _no, no – _a trick of the light and they're repeating all their old mistakes. And she won't suffer this again – no, no! – she simply can't, she won't survive, and it is all so terribly, terribly wrong –

"No, no!"

She pulls abruptly off, pushes him back, backs away with both hands covering her mouth and face.

He looks stunned. "What?"

"This isn't right."

"But I thought –" He is still catching his breath. "How can you say that? After today?"

"Today? _Today_? One day against – what? Seven years? And you think we can go out for a spin and everything shall be as it was?"

He shakes his head. "Of course I didn't, but it was –"

"Or that you can just waltz back into my life like nothing has happened?"

"But it wasn't like that! You know I had no idea of seeing you when I came back to England."

It's all rightly said, but telling, she thinks, when even his defenses smart. "That's right." Her face grows hard. "And now you should go back to Ireland and pretend that you haven't!"

She spins on a heel and walks rapidly away.

He follows. He can see how she stiffens, how her pace slackens the closer he draws near, accepting of the inevitable, and she's come to a standstill by the time he is close enough to confront her again.

"Please don't just walk away like that!" he says. "I can't just go back, I can't do that. Not now. Not after I've seen –"

"And what have you seen?" Anger, there, in her eyes. The likes of which he's never seen before.

"You can't tell me that you felt nothing today. You never could before and you can't do it now."

Curious how feelings can turn on a dime, the deepest love for the deepest hate. And she despises him, utterly despises him, insides roiling with how easily he throws it in her face, everything she cannot deny.

"You're right. I did feel." _Anger. Betrayal_. "I've felt things you could never imagine, and nothing that will ever – _ever! _– make up for what you've put me through. Seven Years, Tom! And nothing! Not once! You knew where I lived. You knew I could never go anywhere. I was going to _marry_ you, Tom, and you never –" Her tirade disintegrates to a sob. "Why did you never write?" she cries. "Not even once?"

"I'm sorry." He tries to think. "I'm sorry." But what can he say that won't be inadequate? He speaks from his heart, from every felt beat that he can somehow transcribe into meager words. "I should have, I know I should have. But I was afraid. Of what I might find. That you'd moved on, married. That everything I thought we had together…" He swallows. "That it was never real."

"So what were all these years, then? Some kind of a test? Oh, you made so much of your wait for me! And here I've done three fold, and then some! Well here's my promise to you –" Her left hand raised for inspection, naked and unadorned. Unclaimed. "And what of the ones you made to me? Every waking moment you said." She sobs into her hands. "I was a fool!"

"No! No, Sybil, I meant what I said! Every word of it, please believe me! But you left me back at the inn – at the drop of a hat! And I didn't know… what was I to think, Sybil?"

She looks at him with bewildered eyes. Think? She had not expected him to _think_, only to feel, the truth in her words, his perfect love for her, a love unconditional, boasting no stipulations – save that she give up absolutely everything.

And she would have done. Oh, how she would.

"You knew where I worked," he says, violet emotion erupting the past, hurling out words. "And yet I don't recall ever getting a letter from you in all these years!"

"Perhaps I was also afraid of what I might find."

"You know I could never –"

"I didn't know! What did I know? I thought I knew that you would trust me, knew that you would believe me when I told I would stay true. But you didn't." She backs away, shaking her head. "You did think me weak."

Small steps follow her, and his hand, extended and open. "I was hurt." He stares into her eyes. "I shouldn't have done, but I left you – and I regretted it every day. Do you have no regrets?"

She could fill the ocean with them, no room to spare.

"No."

"I won't believe that. Please, Sybil don't fight this, don't fight the truth. Haven't we spent enough time lying to ourselves? I never wanted this for us." He touches her shoulder. "I never wanted this for you."

She smacks his hand away. "Don't lie! This is exactly what you wanted, for me to be as wretched as I made you!"

"No –"

"And now we've made our beds – this is our life. And we're going to have to live it."

"So we'll just go on living apart, never moving on, never moving forward, making ourselves miserable?" He steps towards her, hands begging. "Sybil, we could be happy –"

"Happy? What do you know of my happiness? When you've given me more misery…." She breaks down, quietly crying into her hands. And when she finally recovers, uncovers her face, he sees her countenance has changed, becalmed. "I have a good life, now," she says. "It's not the one I always envisioned, but I've built it myself and I like it. I'm content. And I'm not going to give it up for someone that –" She closes her eyes. "Everything I had in the world, all my faith and hopes and dreams – I put them in you, and that new life together in Ireland. I used to have nightmares about waking up in Downton, trapped and alone. And then one day it happened, I woke up and you had left me." Her face cracks. "And the worst part of it is – I don't even blame you."

"We can fix this. I swear we can. Please, Sybil, will you let us try?"

"No. We're finished Tom. We were finished long ago. Because you see, I _have_ moved forward. And I'm not going backwards." Voice dry and calm as the eye of the storm, and he knows he has lost her again.

She walks away from him, a slow gait, as one with no fear of being followed.

But he can't help his voice calling out:

"And what about Christopher? Are you going to marry him?"

The question stops her. She looks over her shoulder and sees his face, his affliction.

_Oh, Tom_. "Of course I'm not."

She turns and walks through the park, through the heavy rain that starts up again, to the empty street where she hails a taxi, evenly reciting the address of Grantham House.

When the door opens, Mary is on the other side, her smile quickly transformed to shock.

"Sybil! You're drenched!"

Sybil hurries inside. "I didn't have an umbrella." Jones shuts the door and comes alongside to help with her coat and hat, her face an indistinguishable dripping mess. "Thank you," Sybil says without a hitch. And on the bottom step she turns: "Could you send Fiona up?"

As soon as her bedroom door closes she undoes her frock and lets the sodden garment sink to the floor. Peels off the soaked chemise and tosses it aside.

Fiona slips inside. "Can you have the hemline finished on the turquoise dress by tomorrow night?" Sybil asks while toweling off her hair. "I've got dinner plans," she says with a smile.

Fiona leaves. Wrapped in her warmest dressing gown, Sybil sits on the windowsill, staring into rain, while Branson, by his own window and much later into the night, having chosen to while away most of the sleeping hours sitting on a deserted bench in the park before making the desolate and solo trek home, replays and replays his last conversation with Charlie:

"_What do you mean you're selling out the paper?" _

"_We're bankrupt, Tom. _'The People'_ have no use for us anymore, or our opinions. Our side of the argument has no more traction, and we're giving over to the competitor: _The Times_ will rebrand us and roll out the new direction for our readership."_

"_And so my article about Mr. Galding – it's to be the splashy headline on the new flagship paper?"_

"_Of a sorts."_

"_So why the runaround? I don't know why you didn't just tell me all this from the beginning!"_

"_Because you wouldn't have done it. You wouldn't have gone, and I needed someone to go!"_

"_Then send someone else!"_

"_You're the only one even-keeled enough for this kind of a job, the only who could have done it without making up some excuse to punch the poor man in the face."_

"_And what am I to do now? Come back and just accept that we've been run out?"_

"_You'll have a job for you when you get back. Whether or not you want it is up to you. But it's a lost cause, Tom. There's winners and losers in this business, in all things, if you get right down to it – and we're the losers. We've lost the fight, lost it years ago, really. And now it's time to turn everything over – including this paper – and make the best of it." _

He'll come home to nothing. He'll come back with nothing. A bankrupt paper and a bankrupt life, and it turns over in his mind that night, into Monday morning, aboard the ferry as he sails back home and watches the rain fall from a porthole window, and Sybil unmoved from her watch by the window, the small hours, the sunrise, the sun rising to its apex as she watches the rain fall, the rain, the rain, which has not stopped falling, which follows her to dinner that evening, which follows him all the way to Dublin.

_Today was wonderful_.

And one they will never forget.

* * *

_Hello. It's me again. Hope I haven't enraged everyone, BUT what I will say is that I wanted to keep this fic as realistic as possible and I didn't feel that one good day could really compensate for the years of bitterness and remorse. Branson, as the innate idealist, naturally thinks they can skip off into the sunset. But our dear Sybil is much more the realist, much more cautious of the two, and even more so after what happened, and so I felt this, as painful as it is, really is the logical conclusion of their day. BUT all that aside, I hope you will continue to hang in there! I do have plans!_


End file.
